


Lindy's Story: Revisited

by angeladex



Category: Beastly (2011), Beastly (Novel), Beastly: Lindy's Diary
Genre: Abuse, But the characters and general story are similar enough, Canon Related, Drug Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not...really movie-canon compliant?, Overcoming Trauma, Slow burn i guess?, Stockholm Syndrome, canon-compliant contrived themes, cross-posted to my ff.net account, mentions of past trauma, mentions rape of a minor, uses scenes from both 'Beastly' and 'Beastly: Lindy's Diary'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-09-06 15:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20293531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeladex/pseuds/angeladex
Summary: You all remember the story of Beastly. How Kyle Kingsbury got cursed by the witch Kendra. Lindy even wrote a diary about it. This is a companion to Beastly and to Beastly: Lindy's Diary. To make the two accounts more consistent. Sometimes details get left out, for the sake of concision. This is...the non-concise version.





	1. The Mansion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy is brought to the Mansion. Sorry, brownstone. Bullshit is called. The living arrangement is explained.

The temp had soared in the upper nineties all week until breaking the barrier today with a whopping 103, and it had been miserable on the subway, but when we got to the address, it was at least nice inside. Even if the guy who answered the door was staring into space.

Dad had been arguing with me all morning, and he was mad I’d asked Sarah to pick him up later, and mad I’d said something snippy about Hob, and I admit, when we got to the house I was supposed to be staying at, I was a little incredulous.

They called it a ‘brownstone.’ Like…it was a mansion. It was obviously a mansion. They owned the whole building? And it was in Brooklyn? It was a mansion. Way nicer neighborhood than I’ve ever been allowed near, anyway. How did Dad even know anyone who lived somewhere like this?

I’d been crying, though I was trying to get over it. I hated crying. I hated showing him that he had the ability to make me cry. I hated him.

“Where is he?” my dad said instead of a greeting, once we were inside, with the heat firmly on the other side of the door.

The man didn’t look at him when he spoke, he just kept staring fixedly at a point just to the left of Dad’s shoulder. “Where is who?” the man asked, polite in the face of my stupid father.

Dad paused. “You know,” he tried, at a more appropriate volume. “The, um. The kid.” _The freak_.

What he hadn’t said was so obvious to me I scoffed. “My father has the crazy idea there’s a monster here,” I said, licking my lips. “And that I need to be locked in a dungeon,” I added, trying to smile to sell the joke, but failing.

“No monster, miss. At least, none that I can see,” the man chuckled, like this was a joke, and then I got it, and I felt so stupid. He was blind. “My employer is a young man of –I am told – unfortunate appearance. He doesn’t like to go outside because of it. That’s all.”

“Then I’m free to leave?” I asked, and my dad shot me a glare, which I returned. He was kicking me out. I guess I’d stay so he’d go to rehab, like he promised, but what else did he expect?

“Of course,” the man nodded. “But my employer struck a deal with your father, I believe—your presence here in exchange for his cooperation in not reporting certain criminal acts that were caught on tape.”

What?

“Which reminds me…” he withdrew a card from his pocket—my dad’s driver’s license—and a bag. Oh God. “Your drugs, sir?”

What?? The liar. The LIAR. He was a goddamned liar!! And what else was fucking new?!

I grabbed the bag from the man before my dad could do so. I was furious. “That’s what this is about? You’re making me come here so you can get your drugs back?”

“He caught me on tape, girl,” Dad growled, “breaking and entering.”

Of course. Of _course_. This had never been about saving me from Hob. I knew Hob, the bastard. He wouldn’t murder me for my dad’s debt, even if my dad might think so. He liked my looks. He’d been creeping on me since I was fucking thirteen, and it was why, when I saw him at the house, I took the scenic route home. I’d circled the block six times, once, just to make sure he wasn’t in the house.

“I’m guessing this wasn’t a first offense,” the man said distantly, and I tried to tune back in. Let go of my blinding rage. “And the drugs alone would result in a more serious sentence, I believe.”

My dad nodded. “Minimum mandatory is fifteen years to life.”

Un-fucking-real.

“Life,” I said aloud. I turned to the man. “And you? You agree to this…this…my imprisonment?” I blustered.

“My employer…has his reasons,” the man said warmly. “And he’ll treat you well – better, probably, than…” he stopped speaking before he actually finished the sentence, but I scoffed. “Look, if you want to leave, you may,” he started again, “but my employer has the break-in on tape and will bring it to the police.”

_Let him. I won’t. I won’t. Whatever he sold me for, I won’t cooperate._

But…

I hated myself. That little bit of my little-girl heart that still felt loyalty to my daddy. Like he deserved it.

_But he said he’d go to rehab_. And Sarah’s boyfriend was big and wouldn’t take no for an answer. But it wouldn’t work, if I left. That wasn’t the deal. And I really wanted him to go to rehab.

I looked at my dad. He was my dad. I didn’t want him to go to prison.

“You’re better off. I’ll take that,” he muttered, and snatched the bag from my fingers. The bag of drugs I had forgotten I was holding.

And then he slammed the door behind him, only a waft of hot air to tell that he’d been there in the first place.

_Well, good riddance! _I wanted to scream after him. But I didn’t. I remembered him hitting me, when I flushed his stash one time last year. I remembered Hob—

“Please, miss. I can tell you’ve had a hard day, even though it’s only ten o’clock,” the blind man said kindly, and I turned to look at him. “Come. I’ll show you to your rooms?”

“Rooms? With an s?” I muttered. It was probably too good to be true.

“Yes, miss. They’re beautiful rooms. Master Adrian – the young man I work for – he’s worked very hard to make certain they’re to your liking,” as he spoke, he put his cane out, making to walk forward, and I stepped out of his way. He fished in his pocket as he spoke. “He asked me to tell you that if there’s anything you require—”

I opened my mouth, but of course he kept going, because he didn’t see the visual cue. Right. Blind.

“—anything at all other than a telephone or an Internet connection—“ he revised, and I saw that what was in his pocket had been a key. “—to be certain to ask for it. He wants you to be happy here.”

I eyed the key and rolled my eyes. “Happy. My jailer thinks I’ll be happy? Here? Is he crazy?” I scoffed.

“No, miss.” He locked the door with the key, and then turned around again. “I’m Will,” he continued. “I too, am at your service. And Magda, the maid, whom you’ll meet upstairs. Shall we go?”

And when he turned, he offered me his arm.

I didn’t take it, but he started up the stairs momentarily, anyway. I looked at the door – the locked door. And turned to follow him.


	2. The Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy cannot be bought. Nope. She sure can't. But for a prison, the digs sure are spectacular. Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?

I wiped the rest of my earlier tears from my face, feeling more than a little awkward. This was such a weird situation. I had doubled back to grab my suitcase, and Will probably heard me struggling with it; Dad was a jerk, but he’d carried it most of the way here. Good for something, I guess.

I almost thought I saw a shadow on the staircase but dismissed it. Either it was my imagination, in which case I didn’t care right now, or it wasn’t, and it was Will’s “employer” the wolf-boy, in which case…I didn’t care right now. It wasn’t like we were going to be friends, or anything.

And…it was Rooms. With an s. Will said the whole floor was mine. I’d shared with my sisters all my life, until they’d left to live with their boyfriends. And even when I’d had my own space…it was nothing like this. Fresh-painted walls and crown moldings. Mansion-worthy, I supposed.

“’Lindy’s Room,’” I read from the gold-stenciled lettering on the door of what I guessed was my suite. Stalker, much?

But God. The room. Roses were everywhere. In vases on nearly every surface, in all sizes, varieties and colors. It made the whole room smell lovely. My mind flashed for a moment to Kyle Kingsbury. I always thought of him when I saw roses. Poor, stupid Kyle. The most persistent rumor about him was that he was in rehab, which I suppose made him seem glamorous to the students at Tuttle. But…I just think of my father. Addiction is not sexy.

“My employer grows roses,” Will said at length; an explanation, I supposed.

“He grew these?”

“He thought you might like them.”

I nodded and examined the rest of the room more closely. There was artwork on the walls, brand-new furniture, including a king-sized bed with the most expensive-looking sheets I’d ever seen. I shied away from this: a stalker madman might not create such luxury for one he intended to rape and murder…but he might. I saw a window and walked over to it.

“It would be very far to jump, wouldn’t it?” I murmured, fingering the thick glass and admiring the view between the slats of the wooden blinds.

“Yes it would,” Will answered, “and the windows don’t open that far.” A beat later he ventured, “Perhaps…if you give it a chance, you won’t find it so terrible, living here.”

“Not so terrible?” I repeated, incredulous. I backed away from the window and continued to explore the room. There was an enormous walk-in closet, and I set to inspecting it for torture devices. You never knew. “Have you ever been a prisoner?” I asked scaldingly. “Are you now?”

“No,” Will answered firmly. I wondered which one was the firmer ‘no.’

“I have,” I muttered. All I found on the floor of the closet were shoes. And, I realized, they were all brand-new, and my size. God. That was creepy! In what universe was that not creepy? The clothes were all in my size, too. Where would I even find occasion to wear some of this stuff? It looked like a small section of Bloomingdale’s, not an actual wardrobe for someone like me.

“For sixteen years, I’ve been a prisoner,” I said to Will, turning my back on the bribe. I couldn’t be bought with fashion. For all I had been stalked, it was almost surprising that anyone could think otherwise. “But I’ve been digging a tunnel. On my own, I applied for and got a scholarship to one of the best private schools in the city.

“I took a train there every day. The rich kids there ignored me because I wasn’t one of them.” I scoffed. “They thought I was scum. Maybe they were right.” I frowned. It was hard for me to say this aloud, and that surprised me. “But I studied my hardest, got the highest grades. I knew that it was the only way out of my life, to get a scholarship, go to college, get out of here.” Will said nothing, but I had gotten myself good and angry, now. “But instead, to keep my father out of jail, I have to be a prisoner here. It isn’t fair,” I said evenly, though I was seething, again. I was furious when I realized tears had come unbidden to my eyes, and I refused to vocalize them. At least Will wouldn’t see them.

“I understand,” was all Will said.

“What does he _want_ from me?” I snapped. “To make me…work for him? To…to use me for sex?” And the tears. God. I wiped them angrily away.

“No,” Will said, and there was an unyielding firmness there, again. “I _wouldn’t_ go along if that were the case.”

“Really?” I breathed, and it sounded snippier, but I was actually relieved. “What then?”

“I think…” Will paused, and then tried again. “I _know_ he is lonely.”

Lonely. Sure. If you had enough money, you could get away with it, I guess. I sighed but didn’t say anything.

I walked around again, pulling a yellow rose from one of the vases. It was gorgeous. Not the kind of flower you could just buy on my side of town. Expertly de-thorned, and petals like velvet. I brushed the bloom against my cheek, but then I replaced it.

Will seemed content to let me be, as I dragged my suitcase into the room with my name on the door, though compared to my department store closet, the clothes I’d packed seemed dingey and unworthy. Like me, I guess.

I opened a door from the room – my room, it said on the door—so that I could continue to explore what Will had claimed were my rooms with an s.

Oh. Oh my. The next room stopped my heart, and I gasped aloud. Will didn’t exist anymore, my dad didn’t exist, Hob didn’t exist, my unknown jailer didn’t exist. Because this was heaven. This…this was my sanctuary. It was a library. A library. It was one of my rooms with an s. Maybe my stalker had gotten it wrong, trying to buy me with Bloomie’s, but this. This was my currency. This had a chance at buying my cooperation. I mean, not totally. There were things I wouldn’t do, if I could help it.

Books. Books and books and books and books. Shelves that reached the ceiling, and ladders that reached the tops of the shelves. And I saw Shakespeare, Vonnegut, Austen, M.T. Anderson…books about physics, religion, philosophy. Hunter S. Thompson. I tilted my head back and back, to see the rows nearer the ceiling, and then I was climbing a ladder, pulling out Shakespeare’s sonnets, clutching the book to my chest, smelling it. Brand new. I pulled another book –one of his tragedies, I think, and felt more grounded. I descended the ladder carefully, clutching my treasures, eager to read them.

But I saw Will. And then I remembered that this wasn’t my heaven. My sanctuary. This was…this was just a really, really nice prison library. And I wilted. “When I was a kid, I used to like to go to the library,” I said, fidgeting with the books in my arms, knowing they were bribes, but unwilling to put them back. “Because it was safe there,” I added softly. That’s…that’s how I got to love reading so much.”

There was another beat of silence.

“You’re safe here,” Will said presently, and I laughed.

“Safe?”

“Yes, safe,” Will rejoined, and that firmness was there. Will had passions, and they made his voice sound strong as steel. “That story, whatever the hell your father told you? Is a lie. But you _will_ be safe here.” A big fat _or else_ was left unsaid, and I smiled, though Will didn’t see it. “I wouldn’t go along with it if that wasn’t the case,” he insisted. He’d said that earlier, and maybe he just really wanted me to let my guard down so that I’d be caught unawares, but I wanted to trust him. “Adrian only wants a companion.”

I winced at the word ‘companion.’ It was archaic, like when Dad had said Adrian was a freak. A word from another time, obsolete, and un-PC.

Weirdly, I thought of my dad, then. And not…not the scum who’d abandoned me here. My dad. Who held my hand when I crossed the street, and kissed my knee when I fell. Before my mom died, he was a respectable person. Before he’d sell his soul –and mine—for a fix.

“Live here a year,” Will said, and I looked at him. “I’ll tutor you, and you can take the state tests, like the home-schooled kids do. At the end of the year, you’ll be alive, safe, and a year closer to graduation. Can you say the same if you stay with your father?”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t bring the lie past my lips. No. No. A thousand times no. I hadn’t felt safe in my father’s care since I was ten. I hadn’t felt safe in that hellhole of a house since I was thirteen, when Hob became his new pusher.

“I think I need to be alone now,” I said, feeling a sudden need to punch something. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that my dad had sold me here. It wasn’t fair that he’d done it before. It wasn’t fair that, for all it was a prison, in every sense, it was still the safest I’d felt in a long time. At least my door had a lock. At least I could barricade the door with something. That was more than I’d had at home.

“I’ll give you a chance to rest,” Will said, offering a bland smile slightly to the right of where I was standing, “and look over your new home,” he added. “Magda will bring your lunch at noon. You can meet her then. If you need anything, ask. And it’s yours.”

And with that, Will left, and closed the door. I was alone.

I clutched my books close to my chest, and numbly wandered back to the main suite. ‘Lindy’s Room.’ Despite my misgivings about the bed, I beelined for it, putting the books on the night table. And then I collapsed into the pillows and comforter and started to sob.


	3. The Jailer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy converses with her Jailer and debates the possibility that she will be murdered in her sleep. The suckishness of her father is explored.

At noon, there was a knock on the door. I ignored it.

“Excuse me, miss, I have lunch.”

And I frowned. It was a woman’s voice. The maid. What had they said her name was? I didn’t want to be rude, and so I opened the door.

She had started to set a tray outside the door, but straightened up, offering it to me, instead. Genuine crystal drinking glass with a stem. Rose-edged china with delicate sandwiches. Way too fancy for me. Even if I had been hungry. Which I wasn’t. He thought he could buy me over with food?

“Hello. You must be Linda. I am Magda.”

I took the try from her. “You work here?”

“I do.” She smiled. “I do cooking and cleaning. Mr. Adrien is happy to have you. He said to tell you to pick whatever food you like for lunch. I’ll buy it for you.”

I scoffed, though I felt bad, like I was scoffing at Magda.

“You are safe now, Miss Linda.”

“It’s…it’s all right to call me ‘Lindy.’ I…I prefer Lindy.”

“You are safe now, Miss Lindy.”

She left, and I had a tray full of food I really didn’t feel like eating. I put it down on the ground outside my door and shut it again.

Safe. Right. In my million-dollar mansion – sorry, Brownstone—with my private prison library, and my department store closet, and an Arboretum of roses. Beautiful roses. My favorite flowers. In a room painted my favorite shade of creamy yellow. Keeping company with Shakespeare’s sonnets.

At length, a paper slid under my door, and I looked at it curiously.

It was a letter. From my allegedly freakish host. Adrian King. I skimmed it quickly and scowled. Do not be afraid? Meeting him for dinner? Was he serious? What did he think was going on here? Some kind of romance? He had trapped me here, kidnapped me, tried to buy me off.

I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I found a pen on the nightstand, flipped the paper over, and wrote ‘NO’ in huge capitals, then sent it back under the door.

I returned to my sonnets. I had initially tried to take up as little room as possible on the bed, but reading Shakespearean sonnets needs breathing room, and I eventually found myself lounged as comfortably as if I were home alone on my own bed. I pulled a decorative pillow close and submerged myself in the words. Shakespeare had such a way with the words.

A knock came to my door again some time later.

I ignored it.

It came again, louder.

“Please, there’s nothing I want,” I called, wanting to be polite in case it was Magda. Or maybe Will. “Just go away!”

“I have to talk to you,” replied a voice that wasn’t a woman’s, and wasn’t Will.

“Who…who is that?” I said warily. I hadn’t locked the door. God. Oh, God. I hadn’t locked it. I sat up immediately, wondering how good his hearing was. Would he know I was on the bed? I had to lock the door. I had to lock the door. If the door wasn’t locked, I wasn’t safe.

“Adrian…” came the uncertain reply. “My name is Adrian. I’m the one…”

_The one what? Come, now. Can’t you say it_? I thought savagely. I had managed to slide off the bed with nary a creak, and walked silently to the door, engaging the lock.

“I wanted to meet you,” he finished lamely.

“I don’t want to meet you,” I responded in a snarl. “I hate you!” I felt much braver behind the locked door. I kept my hand on the handle, just to reassure myself that it wouldn’t turn. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

“But…do you like the rooms? I’ve tried to make everything nice for you.”

My mouth fell open. “Are you…are you crazy? You’ve…” I thought of my dad. “You’ve kidnapped me! You’re a kidnapper.”

“I didn’t kidnap you. Your father gave you to me.”

I frowned. “He was forced to.” I tasted the lie, and I hated it.

“Yeah, right. He broke into my house. Did he tell you that? He was robbing me. I have the whole thing on surveillance.” He sounded mad, and it changed his voice, a little. There was…almost a growl, underneath the words. Like he really was part animal. “And then, instead of taking his punishment like a man, he brought _you_ here to take it for him. He was willing to sell you to save himself.”

And I thought of Hob, again. I thought of a night when I was tired and thirteen. I thought of a conversation I heard that I wasn’t supposed to have heard. About me. I thought of Hob’s presence in my room. In my safe space. Invading me.

“I’m not going to hurt you, but he didn’t know that. For all he knew, I could be keeping you in a cage,” Adrian said, and I felt the doorknob again. Locked. Safe.

I couldn’t answer that. It was…God. It was true. All of it was true. And what’s worse, he’d done it before. He’d done it worse, _knowing_ I was going to get hurt, but selling me for…what? He’d gotten an extra 16th. That was 1 ¾ grams off my pound of flesh. (I winced at _The Merchant of Venice_ parallels) Street valued at $120. At least he didn’t settle for the ½ gram offered first. He bartered. I was worth the 16th, but not a mere ½. Bastard.

“What a scum,” Adrian muttered.

I had been thinking it, but it didn’t give him the right to say it.

“Be quiet!” I argued, pounding the door hard with my palm. “You have no right!” I pounded it again, for good measure.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said then, softly. “I didn’t mean that.”

When his voice went soft, it sounded familiar, in a vague sort of way. Why would that be?

“Did you hear me?” he tried a few minutes later. “I said I was sorry,” he said a little louder.

A knock sounded, right at level with my chest. “Lindy?”

I held my breath, and kept the doorknob clenched between my hands. Let him try. Let him fucking try.

But instead I heard a sigh, and then retreating footsteps.

I let out the breath I’d been holding, all relief and trembly and with a tearless sob behind it.

I stood there for a while. Frozen. He hadn’t tried to come in. Hadn’t tried the door. Hadn’t come in via some other way I didn’t know about but he would, because it was his house. Mansion. Brownstone. Whatever.

I unclenched the doorknob and rubbed at my aching fingers. I turned my back on the door, sliding down it, and fixing my shirt when it bunched up. Ugh. Stale sweat I’d forgotten about that had cooled in the AC and made my back slightly sticky and smelling like deep-baked Lindy. Maybe later I’d try to explore and find a shower.

I reached up to the bed, pulling a pillow down, and hugging it. I was almost ready to doze there. It wasn’t…comfortable. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, really. I felt safer, with my back to the door, knowing that, even if I did drift off, I wouldn’t be taken unawares. Unless there really was some hidden, creeper entrance somewhere. Like the book I’d read about H.H. Holmes, and the “murder hotel.”

A knock sounded somewhere above my head, and my heart stuttered in shock, before thundering wildly. The door was locked. The door was locked. “Go away!” I shrieked, and it had scared me. Startled more tears out of me. “Just…just because you have me here doesn’t mean I’ll do –”

“I know,” he interrupted. “But can I just…can you listen to me? For a minute?”

“Do I have a choice?” I growled, wiping the tears away. Again. Goddammit. I stood and tossed the pillow back on the bed. But I wouldn’t open the door. I wouldn’t. And if he tried to force it open, I’d scream and scream and the neighbors would call the cops. Hopefully.

“Yes,” he said, and it sounded…earnest. “Yes, you have a choice. You have,” he sighed. “You have tons of choices. You can listen to me, or you can tell me to fuck off.”

My eyes widened a little.

“You can ignore me forever. You’re,” he paused, “right. You…you did your end. By coming here. We…we don’t have to be friends.”

“Friends?” I choked out. “Is…is that what you call it?”

“It’s what I…” he ended his sentence, and I frowned. _It’s what you _what_? Say it. It’s what you hoped? That friendship could bloom from blackmail and coercion? That romance could maybe happen? Un-fucking-likely._

“I hope we…can be friends someday,” he tried again. “I understand if you don’t want to be, if you’re….” he trailed off again, and I didn’t say anything. Let him drown in his “good intentions” and self-righteous bullshit. Not my problem.

“Look,” he muttered, and he sounded more defeated. “What you need to know is, I don’t eat human flesh, or…or anything. I _am_ human. Even if I don’t…look it.”

What the hell did that have to do with anything? Maybe it was enlightened of me, but I didn’t give a damn what he allegedly looked like. Appearances were shit. You could be fine on the outside but rotten underneath. Look at Sloane Hagen. Look at Hob. Or…or Kyle Kingsbury. God. Kyle Kingsbury. For all I used to crush on him hardcore and make excuses for him, he was a piece of work. No, I was just worried about being imprisoned in his house, and maybe raped, tortured and murdered. He could have three heads, for all I cared.

“And I’m not…I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want,” he continued. “Except…except stay here. I hope…I hope you’ll decide to come out soon.”

“I. _hate_. you!” I bit out.

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” he grumbled. But there wasn’t more growling, like I’d heard when he was getting mad. I wasn’t making him mad. “Will and Magda, they work here. Will can tutor you, if you like. Magda will make your meals. She’ll…she’ll clean up your rooms, shop, do your laundry, whatever you want.”

What…was the point of that? I knew how to clean up after myself, did he think he could impress me? “I don’t want anything,” I said. “I want my life back.”

“I know,” he said. If he knew, then why were we still talking? “I hope…I hope you’ll come out sometime because…”

“Because _what_?” I clamped my mouth shut. I didn’t care. I’d just said it aloud, that time.

“Nothing,” came the low reply. And then he was gone. Again. Thank God.

I felt a little easier when he left this time. There was more finality there, and I suspected he wouldn’t come back for a while. I pulled my suitcase out and sighed, deciding I may as well have some of my things here. My stuff wasn’t nearly as nice as the things in the room already, but I did my best to find them a place. My worn book of fairy tales I’d had since forever. A few extra tank tops and some flip-flops. Did Bloomingdale’s not believe in flip-flops? How sad for them.

I didn’t have many treasures. Stuff that I couldn’t hide real well ended up being stolen and sold when my dad needed a fix. Another reason to like books. Books were cheap. You couldn’t really sell books enough to turn a profit. And so my dad left them alone. I had a necklace from my mom, and some earrings I had pierced through one of my bras, so my dad wouldn’t find them. I didn’t find any underthings in my massive closet. That…made me feel a little better. A little. Maybe he was some stalker-creeper, but…he hadn’t just filled my closet with see-through negligée or any private things, like that. Maybe he hadn’t thought of it. And that was…comforting.

I found places for my clothes in the delicate dresser, despite the closet full of other choices. If this went south, I could at least say I wasn’t a thief, stealing these clothes. I had my own, and they were perfectly fine, if not as fashionable as the ones in my closet.

I had just decided to brave taking my shoes off; I was in this for the long haul, and I craved comfort. I wanted to listen for the routines everyone had, and when the house was quiet, I might be able to steal a shower.

I didn’t leave my suite. It wasn’t my _room_. Even for the lure of the library through the doors, or any of my other rooms with an s that I hadn’t of yet explored. Exploration could wait for later. When I went to find a bathroom.

Another knock at my door, and I froze, going to the door again. It was locked. It was locked. I had locked it.

“Arroz con pollo,” came Magda’s voice through the door.

“I…I don’t want any dinner. Are you kidding?” I had left the other tray outside the door. Did he not take a hint?

“I have brought you a tray? You…eat in there?”

I…oh. Oh, that was different. I reached for the handle, shakily unlocking it. It might be a trick…

Magda smiled at me when I cracked the door open.

“Yes. Yes, please. That would be fine,” I said haltingly, taking the tray from her, and trying to offer her a smile. “Thank you,” I added, and she smiled.


	4. The Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison...amenities explored. It is discovered that her Jailer is just a dumb boy who didn't even think through what to stock for her prison supplies.

I have lived in apartments all my life. I have grown up knowing the sounds of my neighbors; sounds that have nothing to do with me, and yet are familiar. Trying to find the routine of this house is similar, but…different.

Hearing silence for more than an hour was the encouragement I needed to finally unlock my door and slip out, hunting for a bathroom because I really needed to pee.

I found it soon enough, and locked myself in, relishing in the beautiful touches here, as there had been in my suite, or the library. Little soap cakes shaped like roses, scented candles, a cupboard stocked with expensive shampoos, conditioners, lotions, and a few miscellaneous hair products. A curling iron, a straightener, and a hair dryer were tucked into a drawer, and I laughed when, again, it was telling that a boy had done this all. Like the clothes, he’d forgotten (or maybe realized it could be creepy?) to stock any underwear or bras. And in here, what was clearly meant to be a bathroom for just me, he hadn’t stocked any. Ah. Feminine hygiene supplies. I’d have to talk to Magda about it, I guessed.

That was his intent, though, wasn’t it? But she seemed nice. Her dinner had been mouth-wateringly delicious, and Adrian had said that anything I wanted, I could ask her about.

There were decorative, luxurious towels, and a spacious tub with jacuzzi jets, but I didn’t need those. I just needed a quick shower. But there was a snazzy electric toothbrush, still in its box, and batteries to power it. I fully planned on taking advantage of that action.

I picked out a towel, slipped out of my clothes, and turned the shower on – hot!—to scrape off this awful day. There wasn’t a loofah or anything, but I had found a washcloth, and I set to the task of getting myself feeling clean. The soap smelled like jasmine, and the conditioner smelled like coconuts, and I might have indulged the feeling of the water – at my apartment, the pressure was bad, and the water was hard, and it had been so with every place I’d ever lived – and washed my hair twice.

I debated, after stepping out of the shower and wrapping a large beige towel around my body, whether or not to use the hair dryer. On the one hand, it was a luxury I never had at home, because if I showered this late at night, it would be too loud through the thin walls and the neighbors would complain. On the other hand…my hair was a force of nature. I kept it braided so it wouldn’t puff up in the humidity and take over Manhattan. It was thick and long and my life would be so much easier tomorrow morning if I just dried it now.

I decided against it. I wrung it out and wrapped it in a second towel while I brushed my teeth. I found a lotion that smelled like vanilla and put it on, and when I couldn’t stall any more, I unlocked the door and crept back into the dark hallway and into my suite. I realized something else I was missing was a laundry hamper. Humph. Mister stalker doesn’t have dirty clothes? This I doubted. I ended up dumping my dirty clothes into my empty suitcase before changing into my pajamas. Well. A modified form of them, at least.

I didn’t normally wear socks with my pajamas in July. Or a sports bra under my cami. But when you lived in a ritzy prison, you had to be ready, you know? I laid down under the comforter and spread my hair out above me, to dry while I slept.

Just so you know? King-sized beds are enormous. And if you were curious? My jail-bed was the most comfortable thing I’d slept on in my life.

I kept my door shut and locked, for the next few days, fully intending to stay in my suite as much as possible. I did let Magda bring me meals on trays, and she always engaged me in conversation that I reluctantly took part in. I didn’t want to be rude. Each meal was accompanied by a rose in a little crystal vase, and she always pointed it out and told me something about it. “If you cut a rose early in the morning, it lasts longer,” or “A coral rose symbolizes admiration and friendship.”

I started keeping a list on my night table with things I would need to eventually ask Magda for, though I didn’t yet. A laundry hamper. Tampons. Bookmarks. Notebooks. I liked to keep a journal, and the one I’d brought with me was about halfway full, even after I’d gone through a dry period, not writing in it for almost a year before this whole business started.

I had been writing in it about my imprisonment, a little, and keeping track of the books I was getting through. I’d done all of the Sonnets twice, and all of the tragedies, which I figured was fitting. I found an e-reader on one of my nightly restocking adventures in the library, with a sticky note on it that read “in case I forgot anything.” I had immediately tried the internet on it, but it didn’t work. The account was set up so that I could get new books and read them, because they were attached to a credit card already, but it didn’t run on Wi-Fi per say. No way to contact the outside world.

I was mad after finding that, but I took the e-reader with me to my suite to play with anyway. Maybe there were books I didn’t already have on my list.

I took note in my head of the sounds I heard, over the next three days. Above me was NPR at around 9 AM. Below me was vacuuming and singing around 2:30. Will and Magda, I guessed. I decided their rooms must be above mine, and that the kitchen and common areas were probably below.

I didn’t hear his sounds. Adrian. I guessed his room must be on the top floor, or down below the common areas, though I did hear sounds later in the evening that could have been him.

On the third or fourth night, I was rereading _Titus Andronicus_ (and freaking myself out because it was dark) and I heard the sounds of someone walking the halls at 3 in the morning. I got up and double-checked my lock, and then stood there by my door, freaking out because…did he always do this? Was he always roaming around at all hours of the morning? And I didn’t know?

I felt a stab of relief then, oddly. If he did…then he hadn’t tried anything, yet. Hadn’t tried to force my door open, hadn’t tried attacking me in the night.

There was a television on the wall across from my bed. I hadn’t used it, yet. Too busy reading. But I listened to the sounds of who I was pretty sure was Adrian, turning on the TV and flipping through the channels until settling on Forrest Gump. I turned my TV on, too, and found the channel. In a way, we could watch the movie together. It wasn’t companionship, which I was starting to realize I kind of missed, but it was good enough.

I had another thought, as I settled into my bed, stacking pillows just so and watching as Robin Wright yelled for Forrest to run; I assume he’s my age? Sixteen-year-old guy, unsupervised, watching TV at 3 in the morning? And not watching porn? That’s…that’s decent of him. At least he has good taste.


	5. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy dreams a dream. Isolation isn't all it's cracked up to be. The suckishness of her father is further explored/expounded. Merchant of Venice, anyone? How much is a pound of your flesh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter mentions the alluded rape

I didn’t usually remember my dreams. This one was…interesting, though. I hadn’t even written about Kendra in my diary, but in the dream, I saw her so clearly. She used to go to Tuttle, a while ago. The last time I had ever seen Kyle Kingsbury, she had been arguing with him. And now she had been in my dream.

It wasn’t a bad dream, really, and I don’t know what it meant that Kendra was in it. She looked pretty. Well, she’d been a crow. And then transformed into herself. But that was dream logic. It seemed to make perfect sense, at the time.

She had been wearing some…Greek goddess getup, and I had just been in my pajamas. Blue cami with a sports bra underneath, silky pajama pants, and red socks.

I had followed her around, when she beckoned, and I remembered in the dream I didn’t feel scared of venturing out of my room. Rooms. With an s. I followed her down the stairs, to the second floor of the house I’d never even seen, except in passing, that first day.

It was the common areas, as I’d expected. Shiny wooden floors, and high ceilings, and beautiful. But…barely lived-in. No…personality. It was clean. I knew Magda cleaned it every day. But…there were no photographs. No magazines, books, or art on the walls.

Kendra let me kind of wander at my own pace, in the dream, taking in the details. I was curious, though too scared to have tried this for real up until now. My room might have been getting boring, with me catching up on reading every day, but it was safe. But the dream felt safe.

After a time – dream time was relative, it could have been minutes, or hours – Kendra was outside the window, standing on nothing, but beckoning me over. I went obediently, seeing the moon. Full and bright, and easier to see than in Manhattan.

I felt a stutter of fear—no…just shock—then, because I had thought, in the dream, that I was safe to wander the house because no one else was up. But there was. Through the window, I saw a greenhouse, and in the greenhouse, I saw a shadow moving.

But the greenhouse! Oh, the roses! Hundreds of them! Red, yellow, pink, coral, white, purple, of all colors –roses climbing on trellises to the ceiling, roses hanging like veils. It was well-lit, and even in the darkness, I could see the colors and details, and I forgot about the shadow until it moved again, and I realized it must be him—Adrian. It wasn’t the petite shadow of Magda, or the careful walking of a blind man. It was someone pacing. Someone tall and masculine.

I had been avoiding him, and he had let me. He hadn’t talked to me in nearly a week. No one had, except Magda, when she brought me food. I was a loner, but I had never been this solitary, and it had started to kind of get under my skin. I was finding it harder and harder to keep at my reading, which was ironic, because I had often dreamed of something like this: no responsibilities, no worries, just me and a vast library of books to read, and endless time to do it. Careful what you wish for, I guess.

I was curious enough to want to see him. Just see him. Not talk to him, not let him know that I saw him. This, even if it was a dream, was kind of perfect. I could maybe just take a look at his face.

I stepped forward, and, perfect dream timing, he stepped out from behind the roses just then.

I did gasp. My hands came to my mouth, and I reacted quite visibly. I didn’t mean to. I prided myself on being kind, especially in the face of what I had figured was some kind of physical, visible disability that had made my dad call him a ‘freak.’

He was tall and slim, but his face. His face was covered in hair – fur?—that was shaggy and blonde like a golden retriever. I scoffed when the comparison was immediately to a dog, but it was probably because his nose really did look more like a…muzzle. A snout. It sloped gently—wolflike—to join with a mouth filled with fangs. God. He really did look like a monster. A….a beast.

I saw his eyes, then. Piercing blue eyes, almost…glowing. In the moonlight. They looked up at me, and I stepped back, wondering if he could see me. They…stirred something in me. Some kind of remembrance. I stumbled away, back into the dark room, fear real inside me, then, wondering if he would chase me. Hunt me. Hurt me. But to my surprise, even as I blundered back upstairs, and locked myself firmly into my room, I wasn’t…scared. Not for myself.

I mean…I was. I usually was. I had lived the sort of life where I hadn’t been able to trust anyone. My father stole from me. My sisters abandoned me. My dad…had let Hob in my room, once. When I was thirteen. Just…let him in for twenty minutes while he went and got an extra hit. While he willfully ignored what might happen in my room. What _did_ happen in my room.

But I just felt…this immense pity. Adrian…his face. It wasn’t fair. How was it fair that he looked like that? Just a rotten twist of fate, and people reacted to him the way I had: fear, and shock, and probably worse. Revulsion. Like Esmerelda in _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_.

There were other parts to the dream I didn’t remember as well. Kendra came back and sang a song, and I didn’t understand the words, at first, but I got the meaning. He was thorny in appearance. Like the stem of a rose. But I could choose to see past that. I could go to him and see what was there. And…it sounded a little cheesy and campy and all, but in all seriousness, I did kind of want to.

He…he had grown all those roses, Will had said. Magda, too. He…he had something beautiful in his soul.

Then, this was the weirdest part, when I woke up? I wasn’t under my covers. I was on top of them, snuggling with a pillow, like I’d been at the end of my dream. No sign of a sing-songy Kendra, but my regular hundreds of roses greeted me. They’d been here since I came, I realized suddenly. And had seemed to thrive in my room. None wilted, none needing replacement.

I found a vase of white ones, on a table next to the window. White roses were my favorite. I smelled them, and they didn’t have any trace of decay. Nothing rotten hidden in the purity of the velvety blooms.

I sat on my bed, then, and tried to carry on as normal, but…it was different, now. I’d seen him, in my dream, if it was to be trusted. I’d already had a bad reaction. But now I knew what to expect. And so if I did see him again, I wouldn’t have to waste a negative, shocked response. I could just pretend he looked normal. He would…probably appreciate that.

I couldn’t muster the venom for him again. I couldn’t think of him hatefully as my jailer and kidnapper. I mean….he was. It was wrong, to blackmail me like that. To force me to stay here out of a sense of duty to my son-of-a-bitch father. But –and maybe this was the Stockholm syndrome already taking affect, because my jail was really damn nice—I think he genuinely cared. At least…a little.

I tried to consider the thing from Adrian’s side.

My dad had…he’d sold me. For all the issue had been danced around, I knew that was probably what had happened. He’d seen that he was caught, and in desperation, he offered me up in the plea bargain. I felt tears on my face, and angrily wiped them away. He’d done it before. He’d probably do it again, as he tried to get sober. He was a fucking junkie. He wanted a fix, and he would sell me to get it. He…he didn’t care about me, when he was high. He just wanted drugs.

So…you have my dad. Caught and cornered. Breaking and entering charges. Caught on surveillance. And he…he sells me. I’d heard a similar conversation before. One I wasn’t supposed to have heard. I was supposed to be fucking sleeping.

_The door had opened a little bit, and it creaked. It was the creak that had woken me up, but I pretended it hadn’t, because I could hear fucking Hob talking to my dad. _

_“…no, that’s my kid’s room.”_

_“Your kid?”_

_“Yeah. Linda. Lindy.”_

_“Pretty.”_

_“We gonna deal, or what?”_

_“Relax. It’s Spanish. Linda. Pretty.”_

_“Yeah, well you’re wasting my time.”_

_“You want something extra for me wasting time, gimme 20 minutes.”_

_“Get real.”_

_“Extra half.”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_“I’m serious. Just…get lost, yeah? 20 minutes. And I’ll get you an extra half gram. Straight up.”_

_“…extra 16th.”_

_“Deal.”_

_The door had creaked closed. Footsteps had come closer to my bed. And Hob got his twenty minutes, and my father got his extra sixteenth, and I got nightmares reliving it and to visit a free clinic the next day, to look at magazines about women’s health and deflect questions of where my parent/guardian was, and to give a fake name and address to fill out their paperwork and never be a child again._

A knock sounded at my door, and I wiped at my eyes again, and I took a breath. It was breakfast time. The knock was probably Magda.

“What’s he like?” I said, after opening the door. “Why…does he want me here?”

She looked surprised but smiled. “He is…lonely. That is all.”

“And…you like him?” I asked.

“I do. I like him very much. He is good boy.”

I nodded, and took the tray, and Magda left.

I ate oatmeal with blackberries and delicate chocolate shavings, I drank orange juice, and I pulled the chosen rose of the day from its crystal vase. White. My favorite. White for purity. I put it in the vase by my window, and sat on my bed, thinking.

I got dressed, eventually, and picked a shirt from my Bloomingdale’s closet. A simple one. It was blue, high-collared, and no sleeves, and I frowned at my freckly shoulders, but it went well with my lighter khaki capris. I braided my hair, I added some more items to the list to give Magda: deodorant, maybe some kind of perfume. I put in my earrings that I’d secreted in my bra. They were little pearl studs, probably not even real, but I’d always liked them.

I paced. God. I was going to do it. I couldn’t, now. I’d wait. Magda and Will would be asleep, and I could listen for him to go down to the common area. I was going to talk to him again, and not yell at him angrily through my door.

He’d earned it, in a way. He hadn’t broken my door down. He’d given me the respect of my own space. He’d given me privacy and dignity, he’d given me rooms. With an s. He’d…he’d given me safety. When my damn father couldn’t even do that much.

So I would go to him.


	6. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jailer...is nice. His name is Adrian. Tutoring is set up, awkward conversations ensue, and Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?

My heart was hammering when I left my suite. My room. I hadn’t changed into pajamas, just stayed in my clothes, restless and pacing, unable to concentrate. I had tried to start some of Shakespeare’s comedies, since I had finished with the tragedies (again) and I honestly didn’t think I could stomach more war and death and dismemberment. I pulled my hair out and rebraided it several times, just for something to do. I had picked at dinner – picadillo, Magda had said—despite how delicious it had smelled, the thought of eating had nauseated me.

I had brought the dinner things with me. I knew Magda would, but I needed something to fiddle with. Once on the second-floor landing, I walked with purpose toward the kitchen, taking solace in the routine of washing dishes. Scrape the food off, rinse clean. Scrape the gunk off the fork, rinse clean. I wasn’t sure what to do with the little vase, or the tray, so I rinsed them, too, and put them in a tidy little drying rack. The dishes, I put in the dishwasher. I could have started it, too, but I didn’t know where the soap was, and I didn’t want to mess with the settings on the dishwasher in case Magda had a particular way she liked to do it.

I knew he was in the living room, on the other side of the door. After I finished drying my hands and fussing with everything I could in the kitchen, I listened at the door, heart pounding hard.

He was watching sports. Some ESPN coverage. Baseball, maybe? I laughed at myself for expecting something else. What, a special about virgin sacrifices? Serial killers? Cannibalism?

I opened the door silently and padded into the living room. I’d worn my shoes. They comforted me. I knew I had on something sturdy if, against all odds, I had to run for my life.

Not that I’d need to. I didn’t think it would come to that. This was just…a meet and greet. A civil conversation, face-to-face, like we should have had in the beginning, to sort out any misunderstandings. Instead of me being a baby and yelling at him like I had.

I saw only the back of his head, lit by the television. It seemed so normal. Blonde hair (fur?), jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, though it was still midsummer, and it would probably be hot.

God. He’d done it for me. To…to hide his body. He probably had that…fur/hair all over, didn’t he? Like a beast.

“I’m sitting here,” he said softly, and I jumped a little. “I want you to know so you won’t freak.”

He hadn’t turned. Hadn’t moved. I flinched at the word ‘freak,’ but I don’t think he saw me. I stepped forward, toward him. The couch was between us, and he turned to look at me. I felt fidgety, and seeing him so still and calm was almost surreal.

“You’ve come downstairs,” he noted, and I stared at him. Stared at the way his eyes were wideset over the bridge of his…nose? Snout? And the counterclockwise whorls of –it was fur, definitely fur—on his snout, blonde-ish and eerie-looking in the light of the television.

“You _are_ a beast,” I murmured, and then I felt immediately guilty. “I mean…my father…he said…I thought it was a trip he was on,” I babbled. “He says crazy things a lot. I thought…But you really are. Oh, my God. I mean…Oh, my God.” I shut my mouth before I could do anything else. Say anything else. God! What was wrong with me?

“Please,” Adrian said when I’d snapped my goddamn mouth shut. “I won’t hurt you. I know I look this way, but I’m not…please. I won’t hurt you, Lindy.”

“I just didn’t think,” I burst out, like if I talked too much and inappropriately, it would somehow make up for how I’d just stared at him and talked inappropriately before. “I thought you were some guy, some pervert who’d…” Oh. My. God. What was I saying? You can’t just _say_ that! “…and then when you didn’t break down the door or anything…” I needed to stop talking. I needed to stop talking. Stop talking, Lindy! “But how could you be—”

“I’m…glad you’ve come down, Lindy.” I snapped my mouth shut as he cut me off—thank God! —and his voice was totally even. Natural. Normal. “I’d worried so much about when we’d meet.”

His eyes were so blue. Weird that I’d be stuck on that. I’m not normally nuts for eyes. Maybe because they were the part of his face that looked the most normal? What kind of snobby bitch was I?

“Now it’s over,” he finished, and he looked away from me. “and maybe you’ll…get used to me.”

I was stabbed with how pathetic that sounded. He had just…accepted that people wouldn’t ever like his looks, and he hid under his clothes, and he said stuff that had this undertone of ‘I know I’m ugly and terrifying, but maybe you could like me, anyway?’

“I was worried you wouldn’t come out, maybe ever,” he added, and my mouth finally spoke again.

“I had to. I’ve been walking at night,” well, the past couple, anyway. “I couldn’t stay in those rooms. I felt like an animal. Oh, God.” I clacked my mouth shut again. Why?

“The picadillo Magda made for dinner. It was good, wasn’t it?” he changed the subject, mercifully, and I latched onto it like a man starving.

“Yes, it was fine. Wonderful,” I choked. What I’d had of it was delicious, and her food was usually lovely.

“Magda’s a great cook,” he continued. “When I used to live with my father, he never wanted her to make Latin dishes. She just made regular stuff then, meat and potatoes. But when he left us here, I didn’t really much care what I ate, so she started making this stuff. I guess it’s easier for her, and it’s better.”

“What do you mean he left you here?” I said indignantly. “Where’s your father now?”

He hadn’t turned back to look at me while he spoke, and he still didn’t. “I live with Magda and Will,” he said by way of answer, and it was a shit answer, but I didn’t press the issue. We were at least talking about things in a semi-normal sort of way, now. “Will’s my tutor. He can tutor you too, if you want.”

I didn’t mention that Will had said as much that first day I’d met him. He was trying to be helpful and gracious, maybe. Like a host. Not a kidnapper. Jailer. “Tutor?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation light and normal. Like he wanted it.

“Teacher, really, I guess,” he latched on, though he still wasn’t looking at me. “Since I can’t go to school because…” he drifted off, and I felt the unsaid words in my soul, pity stabbing into my gut. “Anyway, he homeschools me,” he finished lamely.

“School? But then, you’re…how old are you?” I asked. I thought I knew. I had guessed he was about my age. But it would be nice to have a confirmation.

“Sixteen,” he said immediately, and I thought he almost might have smiled, but I didn’t know his face…snout…and it was dark, and he wasn’t looking at me. So. “Same as you,” he added, and then he did glance at me.

I might have looked surprised, either to have him confirm my suspicion so accurately, or maybe that he knew my age? I mean, he’d known my shoe size, too, but… “Sixteen,” I said aloud. “But then you’re…” the same age as me. In the same boat. All alone. “Then where are your parents?” I filtered out the more vulnerable statements, sticking to curious questions and polite statements. It was much easier to keep everything normal, that way. Civil. Not inappropriate.

It took him a beat to answer, but he did. Still looking at the TV, almost like our conversation was just something that he wasn’t paying attention to, but I knew. I _knew_, in my gut that it was the other way around. The TV was what he wasn’t paying attention to. He was lonely. Starved for attention. Well, attention like this. A normal conversation with someone who wasn’t employed by him.

“My mother left a long time ago,” he said softly, after a time. “And my father…well, he couldn’t handle that I looked like this. He’s into normalcy.”

God. That…that was horrible. I suppressed the questions that arose. Had he always looked this way? Was his father cruel to him? Did he treat him like a freak?

“Do you miss him?” I asked instead, and I was surprised at the vulnerability in that. I…wanted to know. My dad kind of sucked, too. “Your father?” I clarified. Then I looked away, embarrassed when I felt stirrings of emotion behind my eyes. I didn’t want to cry.

He shook his head. “I try not to,” he said, and it seemed the best sort of answer. It was honest, at least. “I mean, you shouldn’t miss people who don’t miss you, right?”

Ouch. It was like he’d read my mind. I had been struggling with the same thing for years. And not just with my dad. “When things started getting really bad with my dad, my sisters moved out to live with their boyfriends,” I found myself saying. “I was really mad because they didn’t stay and, you know, help me with him. But…I still missed them.” God. A tear made its way down my cheek, and I hurriedly wiped it away.

“I’m sorry,” Adrian seemed alarmed that I had let my emotions get the better of me, and I turned away.

“Would…you like Will to teach you?” he asked then, changing the subject and letting me compose myself. “He tutors me every day. You’re probably smarter than me. I’m not a very good student, but I bet you’re used to having some kids who aren’t as smart in regular school, aren’t you?”

He couldn’t have seen, but I smiled at that. I was very much used to that. Not that the rich kids at Tuttle were dumb. But…they could afford to relax. I couldn’t.

“He could just tutor you separately from me, if you want,” he said, when I didn’t respond immediately. “I…I know you’re mad. You have every right to be.”

And I kept my back turned, because that in and of itself was so comforting to me. He had no idea. For him to let me be suspicious and mad, even as he was trying to convince me I had nothing to be suspicious and mad about. “Yes, I do,” I found myself saying, and another tear trailed down my cheek, hot and fast.

“It’s just that I have something I’d love to show you,” he said then, and I froze. What?

“Show me?” I said carefully, and I was done with tears, we had to be done because he was showing his true colors after all, and I needed to focus. I had shoes on. I could run. There was a couch between us, it would maybe slow him down—

“No!” he said quickly, and I turned to look at him again, and he seemed genuinely alarmed. “Not that. You don’t understand. It’s a greenhouse. Okay? I—I built it myself from plans I bought. And all the plants in it are roses. Do you like roses?”

I eased off my suspicion because I knew the greenhouse was real. I’d seen it, in my dream. And I did love roses.

“Will turned me on to them. I guess he thought I could use a hobby,” he said quickly. The fast-talking babble of one who had back-pedaling to do. I knew that babble well. “My favorites are the floribunda—climbing roses. They aren’t as detailed as the hybrid tea roses. I mean, they have fewer layers of petals. But they can grow so high—sometimes ten feet if they’re supported right. And I make sure they’re supported right.”

I let a faint smile back on my face. He sounded so passionate. Like if I was talking about why I liked Shakespeare. He seemed to realize he sounded a little nerdy, too, and I let him off the hook a little. “The roses in my room,” I clarified. “They’re from you? You grew them?”

“Yes,” he said gratefully. “There were yellow ones I know, but I had Magda replace them, when they died. And I gave you the white ones instead. White roses symbolize—”

“Purity,” I interrupted, frowning. “I know.” I had thought the roses were just some…I dunno. Super-plant variety. But…I distinctly remembered yellow roses. And I distinctly remembered the white roses. When had Magda switched them out? I…stayed in my room. The door was locked. And I went out at night, to go to the bathroom. Well…I suppose…I mean, I had to replenish my books sometime, and I did go to the bathroom more than once a day. Magda was a ninja, I guess. I’d have to ask her about it.

“I liked having you see my roses,” Adrian was saying. “I had no one to give them to before, except Magda. But I have dozens more. If you want to come down to see them—or for the tutoring—I can have Will or Magda there the whole time, so you wouldn’t have to, um, worry. That I’ll hurt you. I…I wouldn’t, Lindy. I swear.”

I mean…he said that. And Will had, too. Been so adamant about it. And Adrian looked strong. He was easily over six feet tall. And thinking about it…Adrian was probably strong enough to take down Magda—she was so old, and little. And Will, even, he was blind. Definitely strong enough to probably break my door down. But…he hadn’t.

“And…this is really how you look?” I asked carefully. “It’s not…a mask you’re using to hide your face? Like kidnappers do?” I laughed nervously, like it was a joke, but I really was kind of curious about it.

“I wish it was,” Adrian laughed a little himself. “I’ll…come around the sofa, so you can see for yourself.”

And he did. When he stood, I admit I took a step back. He _was_ tall. Standing closer to me, I realized I only came up to his shoulder. I crossed my arms, observing him with my eyes. He seemed uncomfortable as I was.

“You can touch it—my face—if you’d like to make sure,” he said, and he spoke so clearly around his…snout. His teeth.

“I believe you,” I said, shaking my head. But I did look at him closely. The fur on his neck. On the backs of his hands—God! He had claws! I closed my eyes. _Appearances aside, he hasn’t done anything to physically hurt you_, I reminded myself. But Hob was only two inches taller than I was, and he’d already hurt me worse than anyone ever had. But the difference is that Hob went into my room uninvited. And…Adrian didn’t. Adrian _could’ve_. But he _hadn’t_. Hob did.

I took a deep breath. “I think…I would like for Will to tutor me,” I said. “We could try him tutoring us together, to save his time. But if you’re too stupid to keep up, we’d have to make a change. I’m used to honors classes.”

I said it with a smile, like it was a joke, but I was kind of serious. If this was going to be a thing, I needed to be prepared for college, not circling the kiddie pool.

Adrian smiled, and it was…freaky. But…nice. He was actually…striking. Nice-looking, on his own merit. If you…forgot that he wasn’t actually some different species, he was supposed to be human. “We study in my rooms, by the rose garden,” he said eagerly. “It’s on the first floor. We usually get started at nine. We’re reading Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

“Sonnets?” My interest was piqued. Oh, really? Pick something I’ve totally been studying on my own anyway? That was…possibly very stupid of him. 

“Yes,” he said, and there was an awkward pause. “Shakespeare’s great.”

I smiled. “Yes,” I agreed. “I love his plays and his poetry.” I did. He couldn’t know how much. How I was in the middle of _Twelfth Night_ right now, trying my hand at memorizing one of Puck’s songs, ‘O Mistress Mine.’ “I should get to bed, then. To be ready,” I said at length, when it was clear he wouldn’t say anything else.

I was relieved, and finally a little tired; our meeting was over with, and no one had died, and no one had shouted. I had cried a little, and it had been awkward, but…all in all I’d call it a success.

I was already to my door when I thought to wonder what else was being studied. Other subjects besides reading. They existed. But I wanted to be ready. What math were they working on? What history? It was probably important.

I turned around and headed back down, hoping I could catch Adrian before he went to bed…

As I approached the living room, I heard a voice quietly…whooping. What? I cracked the door from the kitchen, seeing this…boy. Doing a wild…victory dance around the room.

I smiled. What a dork.

I went back upstairs. It could wait.


	7. The Greenhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy has found her people. Kind of. Sonnet 54 and Twelfth Night are public domain because Shakespeare. Lindy is better at homeschooling than I am at quarantine.

I woke up several times before actually waking up for the day. I was feeling anxious. Maybe a little excited, but I’d be lying if I said it was all excitement roiling in my gut.

At six, I gave up on any semblance of sleep and dove back into Shakespeare. A little _Twelfth Night_, a little Sonnet 54. I liked the rose theme, I guess.

“For women are as roses, whose fair flower/Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.

“And so they are: alas, that they are so; /to die, even when they to perfection grow!”

I spoke the line aloud, smiling. I got Shakespeare. I felt his words in my soul. I sometimes felt I knew Shakespeare better than I knew anyone living. Here was a man who lived hundreds of years ago. But he smelled roses and thought of beauty.

I flipped back in my book to where I was still trying to memorize ‘O Mistress Mine’ and got pretty far when Magda knocked at seven for breakfast.

I ate and memorized, and then proceeded to braid my hair and get dressed, still mumbling the song under my breath. There had been a movie made once, that put the music to this song very prettily, and I tried to recall the tune, which repeated every third stanza a few times to make up for there not being a chorus.

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 

O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming 

That can sing both high and low; 

Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 

Journeys end in lovers’ meeting— 

Every wise man’s son doth know. 

What is love? ’tis not hereafter; 

Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What’s to come is still unsure: 

In delay there lies no plenty,— 

Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

I was still humming the song at nine exactly, when I went downstairs to the greenhouse, and knocked on the door.

Adrian opened it, slowly, and I looked around; he’d obviously prepared for me. Vivaldi was playing quietly from the speakers, and a nice table had been pulled from the greenhouse with three chairs and a vase on the table.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, motioning to the chairs. “I set up next to the greenhouse.”

He pulled a chair for me to sit in, but if he thought I wasn’t going to go look at the roses I’d been smelling since I stepped foot onto the second floor, he had another thing coming.

“Oh! It’s so beautiful,” I breathed. “May I go out?” I was already walking toward the door, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw it was locked.

“Yes,” Adrian came behind me, reaching for the lock. “Please. I’ve never had a visitor before, never shared my garden with anyone but Will and Magda. I hoped…”

I walked past him. I had sensed this loneliness in him, and I knew he wanted to be more than my friend, despite what he said. It had been kind of creepy, before, but…after talking to him, it was…less so. I didn’t think I could love him. I…pitied him too much.

“It’s glorious,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t think me rude for brushing him off, just excited. “Just smell it—to have such riches in your home,” I reached for a beautiful peach-colored rose, smelling it, and smiling.

“It’s your home, too,” Adrian was quick to say. “Please come anytime.”

I would come for tutoring. I didn’t need to come anytime. This wasn’t my home.

“I love gardens,” I said instead. “I used to go to Strawberry Fields in Central Park after school. I would sit there for hours, reading. I…I didn’t like to go home.”

I remembered the subway ride, when I was thirteen. Going there instead of going home, after having spent the morning in the free clinic. The daffodils had just come up, then. It was too early for roses. But I stayed there for hours. Wondering how I could look at things that were so beautiful when inside I felt so ugly.

“I understand,” Adrian said, and I looked at him sharply. “I wish I could go to that garden. I’ve seen pictures of it online,” he added, and I nodded, turning back to the roses. I’d thought…just for a moment…that he’d known I was thinking about feeling ugly. And that he understood. But it was silly. He was making small talk. He couldn’t read my thoughts.

I knelt by a section of tiny roses. Miniatures, I thought Adrian had called them, when he was nerding out about the roses. “They’re so precious,” I said, leaning in close to smell a cute cluster of yellow ones.

“Girls always like little things, I guess,” he said good-naturedly. “I prefer the climbers,” he pointed to a trellis, where some pink roses wound up and around elegantly. “They’re always looking for the light.”

“They’re beautiful, too,” I acknowledged.

“But…this one…” he knelt down, too, but not too close to me, “This one’s called a Little Linda rose.” He pointed at the flowers I was smelling, and I froze.

“Do…all your flowers have names?” I asked slowly. That was…creepy. Wasn’t it?

Adrian laughed, and I smiled a little. “I didn’t name it,” he assured me. “The horticulturalists, when they develop a new rose variety, they name it. And this one happens to be called, ‘Little Linda.’”

Oh. I think I’d heard that, too. Well, how about that? My namesake rose was yellow: my favorite color. I smiled. “It’s so perfect. So delicate,” I reached for it. The smell of roses reminded me of Kyle Kingsbury again. Poor, stupid, probably drug-addicted Kyle.

My hand brushed something soft and I felt a shock, like an electric current. But not the deep-fried Lindy variety: the…chemical, I-was-thinking-about-Kyle-Kingsbury-a-little-too-hard-and-imagining-literal-sparks variety. But I shouldn’t want Kyle Kingsbury, anyway. He was…eye-candy. He had great looks going for him. But he probably didn’t have much else to offer.

“But strong,” Adrian said, continuing the conversation, and pulling his hand away—Oh, God, I’d brushed his hand—and looking fixedly at the roses, not at me. “Some of the miniatures are heartier than the tea roses,” he babbled. “Would you like me to cut some for your room, since it’s your namesake?”

I smiled, suppressing a chuckle. Then there was Adrian. Awkward, nerdy Adrian, who knew way too much about roses, and was, like, the opposite of Kyle Kingsbury. He didn’t have looks going for him, but he had…spunk. Personality. He could obviously learn, and he hadn’t proven to be a murderer or rapist. (yet.) Maybe…we could be friends.

“It would be a shame to cut it,” I said aloud, turning back to my Linda roses. “Maybe…”

“What?” Adrian asked, and I took one rose between two fingers.

“Maybe I’ll come back to see them,” I said, hardly believing what I was saying. It was Adrian, though. He was as strange as his roses were beautiful. And he was…trying so hard to flatter me. And while a lot of it was falling flat because he was being way too obvious and desperate…no one had ever…cared to try and ‘woo’ me before. And it felt kind of nice.

I looked him in the face, which I’d been sort of avoiding, and was struck again by the blue of his eyes. Very piercing. Wait. Kyle Kingsbury’s eyes had been that same shade, hadn’t they? But…obviously that was where the resemblance ended. Adrian…was no Kyle Kingsbury. That was for sure and certain.

Will came in, preceded by Pilot, his guide dog, and Adrian acted all happy to see him. “Guess who’s here, Will? Lindy.”

“Wonderful,” Will said, offering a smile. “Welcome, Lindy. I hope you’ll liven things up. It’s pretty boring with just Adrian.” He sat in one of the chairs, Pilot sitting beside him, looking nervously at Adrian.

“It takes two to be boring,” Adrian retorted, pulling out a chair for me. Like a gentleman. I sat, flustered, and then he did, too.

“We’ll be discussing Shakespeare’s sonnets today,” Will ignored Adrian’s quip, and pulled one of his books closer to him, flipping it open and running the tips of his fingers along the Braille with lightning speed, finding what he was looking for. It was mesmerizing to watch. “I thought we’d start with number fifty-four.”

!!!!

“No way!” I couldn’t help grinning. “I was just reading that this morning,” I said.

“Did you bring the book?” Adrian asked, and I shook my head. “That’s…that’s all right. We could wait for you to go get it. Right, Will? Or you could share with me?”

I looked at the rose garden, smiling lightly. “Oh, I guess we can share. I’ll bring my own book tomorrow.”

“All right,” Adrian sounded excited, but pushed the book way over, so it was closer to me than to him.

I looked at Adrian’s book. It was newer, but…not un-read. Not…textbook pristine. That was cool. It meant that he tried to read Shakespeare recreationally, just like I did. I mean…I’d been marking my passages and being overall very rude to my books, but it was still nice to see that we had something in common.

“Adrian, do you want to read it aloud?” Will asked, halting his page-flipping, having found the poem in his Braille book.

“Sure,” Adrian said. And he leaned in, closer than he’d ever been to me before, reading the Sonnet aloud: “’O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,’” he stumbled a bit, but recovered quickly, “’By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!/The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem/For that sweet odour, which doth in it live./The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye/As the perfumed tincture of the roses,/Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly/When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses:/ But, for their virtue only is their show,/They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade;/Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;/Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:/And so of our, beauteous and lovely youth,/When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.’”

I looked at Adrian’s roses, thinking again of Kyle. This poem was kind of perfect, for him. He was a ‘canker-bloom’ if ever there was one. He had the beauty of a true rose, but had it been his only virtue? I thought of the kindness he’d showed me: the rose he’d given me, at the dance. I’d saved that rose. I’d loved it, because it came from him. But…it had probably meant nothing to him. He hadn’t bought it to give to me. He’d wanted to give it to Sloane Hagen.

“What do you think, Lindy?”

I realized distantly that Adrian had asked me a question. Will had been asking about symbology? And I had been thinking about Kyle Kingsbury. What did the rose symbolize in the poem?

“I think it signifies truth,” I said, thinking of how Kyle had been truthful, giving me the rose.

_“Hey, do you want it? Here. Take it…You can have it. It’s not the right color for my girlfriend’s dress or something, so she won’t wear it. It’s going to die, so you might as well take it.”_

But…he’d been kind, too. He’d pinned it on for me. He’d remembered my name.

“Shakespeare talks about how the rose has perfume that makes it beautiful on the inside. And the scent of the rose can last even after the bloom dies. Truth is a lot like that. It might not always be popular, if it’s true, but…it’s consistent. And there’s a sort of beauty to that.”

“What’s a canker-bloom, Will?” Adrian asked, looking at the Sonnet, and back up to Will.

“A dog-rose,” Will answered immediately. “It looks like a rose, but it doesn’t have the perfume.”

“So…it looks good, but it’s not as true? Like Lindy was saying. Just because something is beautiful doesn’t mean it’s good. That’s his point.”

I looked at him. It was…surface-y. But…insightful. “But something with inner beauty will live forever, like the scent of a rose,” I said, and thought of Adrian, since the train my thoughts were taking today seemed to be comparing him to Kyle Kingsbury. He’d been truthful, too, in the beginning, when I’d been yelling at him.

_“You have a choice. You have tons of choices. You can listen to me, or you can tell me to fuck off. You can ignore me forever. You’re right. You did your end. By coming here. We don’t have to be friends…I hope we can be friends someday. I understand if you don’t want to be…And I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want. Except…stay here. I hope…I hope you’ll decide to come out soon.”_

Talk about unpopular truths. But…he’d been honest. And consistent. He hadn’t made me do anything except stay. And…there was definitely…appreciation. If not totally beauty. In that truth.

“I love these old sonnets,” I said, and blushed. I hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“Why?” Adrian asked. And then immediately clarified: “I mean, not that I don’t. I was just wondering why _you_ love them.”

I laughed. “It’s okay if you don’t love them. At my old school, people kind of thought I was a mutant because I loved every moldy old poem we read.” God. Why did my mouth keep insisting on saying things like ‘mutant’? “I love Shakespeare, the ancient Greeks like ‘The Iliad’ and ‘The Odyssey,’ Chaucer, even Thomas Malory. But the people in my class, they wanted to analyze song lyrics or something.”

Oh, no. I was starting to babble. And they weren’t stopping me!

“I think that it’s not really possible to understand new things without seeing their origins. I mean, there would have been no _Once and Future King_ if Malory hadn’t written _Le Morte d’Arthur_, and there would be no song lyrics if we hadn’t first read Shakespeare’s sonnets, you know?”

Clearly he didn’t know! Abort! Stop sounding pretentious! He was staring at me, that weird, fixed stare I often got from classmates, like I might possibly have gone off the deep end. Literally, no one got me unless they were a 70-year-old English teacher.

“I’m sorry,” I said, attempting to stop myself. “I know I get carried away.” _Shut up, Lindy! Shut up, now! We absolutely cannot tell him about how Shakespeare was like a personal friend, or the song we memorized this morning._

Adrian shook his head, though. “No. No, not at all. Man, that is just so…I never thought of it that way. Wow. I mean, wow!” he was smiling, and I could see his fangs, but they weren’t scary. “Hearing you talk about it like that, it makes me want to read all that stuff. What was that last one you said_, Le Morte d’Arthur_? Is that like King Arthur? I’m really into heroes.”

“Me, too!” I exclaimed, and I was looking right at him, and it wasn’t even weird. “I have Tennyson’s _Idylls of the King_ in my room. They’re poems about Arthur. Epic poems.” I did not sigh when I said ‘epic poems.’ I did not. “Maybe we could read them sometime…Will?” I turned to Will, seeing a bemused expression on his face.

“Don’t look at me. I’m just furniture,” he deadpanned, and Adrian laughed, hard, and I looked at him.

“Please, Will! It would be…epic,” he smiled, and I don’t think he was joking.

“I’m…sorry, Will,” I said, after Adrian’s laughter had somewhat subsided. “I didn’t mean to get us sidetracked.”

“Well, here’s my perfectly natural segue from that statement: But does the scent of a rose live forever?” Will looked at me, and I frowned thoughtfully.

“I once had a rose someone gave me. I pressed it in a book. The scent didn’t last,” I shrugged.

Adrian was looking at me. Staring at me, as I talked about Kyle’s rose. And Will nodded.

“What does that mean for your analysis? About truth?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Huh. “A rose isn’t…eternal,” I tried, stopping for a moment to gather my thoughts to make cohesive sense. “But…I think the metaphor still stands. Truth is constant, and it can be beautiful, despite its thorns. And it withstands the test of time. Just like…kindness, or…or love. Or any other virtue. The scent of a rose lives on, after the bloom is dead. For a time, at least. And…truth…is still true, regardless of how much time passes. If…it that makes sense.” I blushed and was glad only Adrian could see me.

After that, the morning seemed to pass very quickly. We moved through Math and History, and then Will invited me to join them for lunch.

“Sort of like the school cafeteria?” I smiled. “Yes, that would be nice.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be as terrible as I was fearing.


	8. The Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stockholm Syndrome, anyone? But real conversations being had. Adrian is no longer classified as an enemy. They're bonding over baseball and talking about stuff.

Adrian knocked on my door a little before dinner. And I had been having a pretty good day so far, and doing tutoring with him had been fine, and I answered with a smile on my face.

“I wanted…um…well, there’s two things,” he stammered, and I waited him out, patiently. When he was flustered, he lost grasp on his train of thought. I must have flustered him, somehow.

“Um, first…were you gonna have dinner with us? With…me and Will and Magda, I mean.”

“…Yes,” I said hesitantly. I’d already had lunch with them, and it had been utterly normal. It was time for me to stop treating this situation with such cynicism. It was what it was, but…these people weren’t here to hurt me, or jail me. I was actually pretty sure that, if I tried to sit down and have a conversation with them about it, like adults, it would boil down to Adrian being lonely, and a concern for my safety. And…that was nice. If I were staying with my dad, wanting to move out, my dad’s concern would be for himself, and how it would benefit him to have me stay or go.

“Awesome. I guess, secondly…I have a confession to make,” Adrian continued, and my eyes narrowed.

“A confession?” Okay. Maybe this was the part where he tells me he intends to sell me on the black market after all.

“I…don’t know squat about poetry,” he said instead, and I blinked.

“That’s not true,” I laughed. “Sure you do. You had a lot to say about sonnet fifty-four.”

“I…cheated,” he said, and he looked sort of…deflated. “I looked it up. Will told me ahead of time what we were going to do, and…I didn’t want to look stupid in front of you.”

A-ha. Another guy pretending to know more than he does by virtue of Wikipedia. Playing with a girl’s feelings about poetry.

“I know, I know,” he said, when I didn’t answer right away. “Stupid and ugly is a deadly combination.”

I couldn’t just let him sit there and think I was judging him hardcore, or that this was the ultimate sin, or something. I smiled. “You’re not stupid. You’re great at math—can’t fake that. And you had a lot to say about the French and Indian War.”

I took a breath to address the ‘ugly’ part of his accusation, but he cut me off before I could.

“Will and I read _The Last of the Mohicans_, he admitted.

“Well, you see? I haven’t read that,” I told him, and I was setting him up to rag on me. _What? A book you haven’t read? _You_?_

But he was still super serious. “The important thing is,” he said, “I lied about Shakespeare. Yes, I lied because, like, you have to try harder when you look like…a supervillain, but…I don’t want to lie to you. I want to be…friends. Which requires total and complete honesty. Usually, I’m one of those people you talked about, the people who don’t understand why we read the moldy old stuff.”

I frowned. Did he…come to insult me? Insult my taste?

But then he added, “Until now! Hearing you talk about Shakespeare and all those other writers…really made me what to read them.”

There was a pause, mainly because I wasn’t sure what exactly to respond to that. _You’re welcome? Go for it? _

Then he said, “Will you teach me about poetry?”

Oh, this boy. He knew just what to say to set me babbling about practically every poem I’d read in my entire life. If you think I didn’t recite parts of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” you don’t know me very well. I talked about John Donne, and the cliché that was e.e. cummings, and then, I started on “Dover Beach,” and he…listened. Like…he listened as though he were actually listening. I got to the last stanza: you know the one, the part that goes,

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

And he got really excited. “Hey, I know that poem. Wasn’t that in _Fahrenheit 451_? That book was awesome! It was the first book I ever really loved, and it started me reading all this other science fiction, like Asimov and Toffler.”

Aaaand science fiction is perhaps the one genre that totally makes my eyes glaze over. But I wanted to be supportive of him reading, and I actually really liked _Fahrenheit 451_ and told him so.

So we kept talking and talking, which was a nice change from one of us babbling ad nauseum and forcing the other to listen in awkward silence. It was…a real conversation.

And I realized I’d been standing there with him for almost an hour and hadn’t once thought of him as being weird-looking, or me being a prisoner, or my stupid prick father, or school.

And then Magda called us for dinner, and Adrian said he _would_ read Shakespeare and he _would_ read Tennyson’s _Idylls of the King_ and anything else I wanted him to read, if I would just forgive him for lying, and loan him the books.

What a freaking dork.

I lent him _Idylls of the King_ after we were finished with dinner, and he said he would definitely read it, and he thanked me again and again for lending it to him, and for forgiving him about the lying, and I may or may not have found the same book to read on the ereader as I went to bed.

Oh, I love these poems! I remembered the first time I read “Lancelot and Elaine” and all three versions of “The Lady of Shallot.” Oh, and then reading _Anne of Green Gables_, and wanting nothing more than to reenact the funeral barge just as Anne did. I could see the romance of the situation, though also the danger of so doing in downtown Manhattan. Can you imagine finding a little boat and trying to float down the East River? Yuck.

I almost wished I had a lily, reading it again. Oh, to be that beauteous lily maid.

I brought a rose into bed with me instead, smelling its pretty scent and letting my eyes mist over as I recounted the tale (again.)

I’m also a freaking dork.

By the next morning, Adrian was waiting for me in the greenhouse, talking about the poems he’d already gotten through, and I asked him if he’d read “Lancelot and Elaine” yet. He hadn’t! So we sat, before Will showed up, to read it together.

I swear I thought I saw him wipe a tear from his eye when Elaine’s body was borne down the Thames past Camelot, but I pretended not to notice.

Will showed up then, though, and Will did notice. “Was that sniffling I just heard? Are you _crying_, Adrian?”

Adrian laughed. “Your supersonic blind-person hearing is obviously faulty. I am _not_ crying.”

“It was me,” I said, falsely confessing. “We were just reading in _Idylls of the King_. ‘Lancelot and Elaine’ gets me every time.”

To which Will rejoined dryly, “Adrian. You are a heartless beast. How can you not cry over one of the most touching passages in al of English literature?”

I sort of froze at his casually flinging around the word ‘beast,’ but Adrian just laughed.

“Poetry’s for sissies.”

We went on with tutoring, and it just…felt so much more normal than it had at first. I relished in it. I wanted to ask Adrian more about himself, what it’s like to be like he is, but…it’s too…embarrassing, maybe? Too personal? There are plenty of things I wouldn’t want him to ask me about.

But…we could talk about poetry, now. And that was fine.

August is always just as miserable and humid as July, if not more so, but—and maybe this is just the Stockholm Syndrome talking, but whatever, I’ll move to Stockholm—it was just…so _nice_.

Here’s a list of things that were so nice:

  1. The air-conditioner worked. It was okay that Adrian dressed in long sleeves to hide his beastly arms from me, because we could totally keep the house (sorry, the mansion) at a pleasant 70ish degrees to combat the raging 90 with 30% humidity nonsense that was otherwise August in Brooklyn.
  2. Even though it was too late for roses, there was a greenhouse. So I got roses in August.
  3. Magda knew how to burn my tongue off in a good way. Though I had realized that what my tongue can take, my stomach can’t always handle. Stupid white-girl stomach.
  4. Adrian was really clever. Like…I think he tried to read whatever I read. And I don’t know if it was a creeper thing, or just that he didn’t know how else to know how to be friends with someone, but we could just talk for hours. And I really appreciated that.

And it’s not always stuff about books, either. And that’s what’s really neat about it. I can talk to him like…a person. A friend. We talk about all sorts of stuff. Will introduced things in tutoring that we could discuss at length for hours. And it was so nice to have…an intellectual equal. It was nice to have a competent teacher, for sure, but Adrian could make me think about things in a new way, and I found that I loved learning with him. He challenged me.

“Did you ever have a favorite teacher?” he asked one day, when we were cleaning up from lunch. “Besides Will, of course. Will’s the best.”

I smiled. “You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“…my dad.”

“What?”

“No joke. My dad used to be a substitute teacher, and my mom was a paralegal, and he subbed in my class a few times when I was little. He was an awesome teacher to have.”

Adrian frowned. And he took the glasses into the kitchen. And didn’t ask. And we let it go.

And again, I don’t know if it’s because he respected my privacy too much to pry, or he wasn’t sure what was okay to ask about, because of not being good with people, but…I really appreciated it.

And it was nice, too, to remember about my dad. That he was a good man, once. He maybe could be a good man again. If only my mom hadn’t died. If only he could’ve found a way to sleep when she was gone. A way without the pills, I mean. I still think, sometimes, that if he’d been able to get his life back on track, and not had to start taking the pills to help him sleep…not started taking harder stuff…not gotten fired…

I started reading more. I don’t know if Adrian was keeping up with me, or I was keeping up with him, at this point. He was a quick study in poetry. Well, epic poetry, I guess. He devoured _Idylls of the King_ and we talked about other contemporaries to it. Will suggested “Beowulf,” I brought _up Le Morte d’Arthur_ again, “Canterbury Tales” and even “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”

We read them all. Those and more. We read _The Once and Future King_, and Adrian said he found a website called ‘The Camelot Project’ that collected works from authors that had written about King Arthur. He printed stuff off and brought them to tutoring, and we couldn’t even get through a quarter of what was there.

We did “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey,” and we did Percy Blythe Shelley, which got Adrian off on a kick because he had been married to Mary Shelley, who wrote _Frankenstein_, which of course he’d read. So of course I had to read it, too. And then we argued in class about whether Victor Frankenstein had harbored romantic feelings for his friend Henry Clerval or not. (I was all for it, and I think Adrian was just mad he hadn’t seen the connection first.)

Will encouraged these insights, but a lot of the time he just let us go. It was nice to have that kind of teacher. He could tell we were obviously engaging with the material, and learning things, and he sometimes mumbled good-naturedly that he’d have to alter his lesson plans again and send them into the Department of Education to make sure the State of New York recognized our learning for what it was and gave us credit for it.

Adrian just said it would be seen to if his father had anything to say about it, and conversation about it kind of halted.

“He feels guilty. My father. He can’t deal with me, so he buys me off. I have to guilt trip him for favors every once in a while. You don’t have to worry about not getting credit for school,” Adrian felt compelled to explain at dinner.

“I wasn’t worried about that at all,” I assured him, and…it was true. I wasn’t.

I mean, it was August. School didn’t even technically start until September, anyway, so even if it took a bit to sort out, we were ahead of the game, for what I figured. And even if it turned out Will wasn’t legit, or something, I _was_ learning. And I could take any test they wanted to prove that I was learning. So they could shove it.

The first month of my time, I had marked in days. Hours, even. But the second? The month of August…flew by. I was so busy reading and learning and eating and joking and arguing and debating and _living_ that I forgot to even record it in my journal.

And…I wasn’t even all that upset about it.

Like…and don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all amazing. I had nightmares, sometimes, and would still lock my door. I still hadn’t actually spent much time alone with Adrian. School? Yes. Meals? Yes. But hanging out? Like that first night? Not so much. Like…we studied, but Magda or Will was usually…around. If not directly present. So…I started to change that.

I started to do Yoga with Will before breakfast in the mornings, and Magda started to teach me and Adrian how to make flan.

But what really helped break the ice a little better was…baseball.

Adrian is a Yankees fan, and so am I.

Will loves baseball; he played it, even when he started to lose his vision, until he couldn’t, anymore.

Once the season started, I started spending even more time with Adrian than I had been before. We studied, we ate, we had school, and now, we watched games.

And baseball is such an easy thing to talk about casually. We discussed favorite players of the past, we made a fantasy baseball league, we have a baseball pool going, in the house, about anything and everything, from who will play, who will win, how many points, and…it’s all just for fun and all, but…it’s really fun.

And it helped us start to have more meaningful conversations.

They would go kind of this way:

Me: Hey, Adrian, did you ever _play_ baseball?

Adrian: Nah, my dad wasn’t much for throwing a ball. He offered to have the maid practice with me, but it didn’t seem like real baseball, that way.

Me: Understood. Lame.

Him: We did watch a game on TV…once. But we never went to a game because, you know, the shrieking mobs with pitchforks would have made things uncomfortable.

Me: *awkward, nervous laughter.* (I totally did count it as something more meaningful, though, because I could file away the information that he’d always looked like this.)

Me: Aren’t you going to ask me if my dad took me to any ball games?”

Him: Sorry. I…thought it might be a sensitive subject. He didn’t exactly seem like the type of guy who’d put buying peanuts and Cracker Jacks high on his priority list.

Me: It’s true. Most of our Cracker Jack budget has been going for _actual_ crack lately. But…when I was little, we used to go.

And I’d tell him about it. About my dad getting certified to teach for real, as an English professor…at Tuttle. Which is how I got so interested in poetry and stuff. I told him how happy it was, when my mom was alive. How we were a normal family. Me, and my two sisters, my mom and my dad.

But then, when my mom died, he just…sort of freaked out.

“He started the drugs, then. Like, prescription stuff, first, you know. To help him sleep. But then it was easier for him to get the other stuff.”

Saying it, it’s like I’m living it all over again.

He had gotten fired, of course. When I was old enough, my sister Sarah told me to call Tuttle and see what strings they could pull, since they’d fired our dad, and maybe we could guilt trip them into a scholarship. I had the grades for it.

So I started going there.

“Did you like it?” Adrian asked, and that set off a whole other train of thought because…no. I hadn’t liked it. I’d hated it. I’d hated going somewhere everyone looked down on me. Like I was dirty, because I was poor.

“No,” I answered, finally. “I didn’t really like it. I mean, it was a good education, but the people there were snobs.”

“I’m sorry,” Adrian said, and I laughed.

“What are you sorry about? They’d have been just as snobby to you.”

He had a weird look on his face, but it only lasted a second. “Well, that’s obvious,” he said after a beat. “Good thing neither of us have to go there, right?”

And the moment was over, and we started talking about baseball again.


	9. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy, you monster. How can you not have seen Princess Bride? Late night movie shenanigans. With a few little PTSD triggers thrown in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter mentions more about the past rape

With late August came this huge thunderstorm one night. I had been lost in thoughts of my dad when I went to sleep, and when the thunder crashed, I was brought out of my sleep with a jolt, scared to God that someone had been shot.

I hate hate hate _hate_ thunder. I hated hearing it so close, I hated how loud it was, how I could feel it in my body.

I got up, I unlocked my door, and crept downstairs. I couldn’t be in my room. I felt like I was inside the storm. I went downstairs, and I sat on the couch, and looked out the window. The window on the second floor is usually the cleanest, because I think, though Magda washes all the windows, sometimes Adrian might…help her a little. Because the second story windows are the ones that you look out to see the greenhouse.

The storm was wild. I could see the wind tossing outside, in the dark. Like a dark sea.

My mind went to _The Tempest_, and that didn’t help at all. People say that it’s Shakespeare’s first comedy, but have they read it? Sure, there’s funny parts and all, but…the storm. God.

A magically created storm, created for the purposes of revenge and deceit, powerful enough to sink the ship and put Prospero’s plan into motion…I literally shuddered, covering my eyes and sitting at the far end of the couch, to remind myself not to look outside anymore.

The storm didn’t cease from me not seeing it, though. It was world-shattering, and so so close, and the sounds of the thunder booming sounded like fucking gunfire, and I hated hated _hated_ it.

The door opened with a crack of light, not from the window, and I turned toward it, seeing disheveled hair, backlit by the light in the hall, silhouetting someone very tall.

“Adrian!” I was relieved to be able to place him. Thinking of _The Tempest_ I might have slipped and called him ‘Caliban,’ which wouldn’t have been very nice at all. He jolted, seeing me. I had scared him. “I was frightened,” I said, as he froze. He was probably feeling self-conscious. He wasn’t wearing long sleeves. “It sounded like gunfire.”

I covered my face again, realizing I probably looked ridiculous.

“Gunfire,” Adrian repeated, and I could tell he was drawing his own conclusions from that. “It’s just thunder,” he said after a beat. “and this old house is sturdy. You’re safe.”

Safe. Safe. God. “Not every place I’ve lived has been safe,” I said without thinking, my eyes still covered. A particularly nasty thunder-sound crashed, then, and I might have whimpered. I hate _hate_ thunder.

“I…notice you’ve chosen the spot furthest from the window,” Adrian said then, from a little closer.

Was he mocking me?

“You think I’m being silly,” I said, and I had the grace to feel a little embarrassed. But I didn’t uncover my face.

“Lindy…no. Nah. I’m here, aren’t I?” He hadn’t come closer than before, and, as he kept talking, he was moving further away. “The noise woke me up. I was going to pop some popcorn and see if there’s anything on TV. Want some?”

“Yes, please,” I called, to be heard over the storm. “Can you make two bags, though? I really like popcorn.”

I bit my lip after saying that. Shit. Maybe he’d think I was saying that so I wouldn’t have to share with him. That was rude, wasn’t it?

But he just said, “Yeah,” like it was fine.

A movie. A movie sounded perfect. Why hadn’t I thought of that? A movie could distract me, and get me out of my head, thinking about guns and Caliban and scary sirens, and I uncovered my eyes, searching for the remote for the television.

Movie. Movie. Movie. I flipped channels, the storm already a little further away as the light from the screen illuminated the room in it’s blue glow. I heard popping sounds coming from the kitchen, and the door was open; Adrian was probably seeing what I would pick. I was picking, wasn’t I?

I saw Mandy Patinkin with long hair, fighting a duel with a fencing sword. I hadn’t seen this one.

“This is a good one,” Adrian said from the doorway.

“What is it?”

“You’ve never seen _The Princess Bride_?”

“I’ve never seen it, I confirmed, and I heard more beeping, as Adrian started popping the second bag of popcorn.

“You’ll like it, I think,” he called. “It has something for everyone – sword fights for me, princesses for you.” He paused. “Sorry. That was…probably sexist, huh?”

“It’s okay,” I looked back at him as—was that Andre the Giant? —fought with a man dressed entirely in black. “I’m a girl. Every girl pretends she’s a princess at one point, no matter how little her life is like that.” I did have the grace to blush, then, and I turned back to the television, putting the remote down. “And I like the idea of ‘happily ever after,’” I murmured, but I wasn’t sure he heard me.

There was silence, broken at last by Adrian calling, “Should I put them in a bowl?”

“Oh, no, don’t go to all that trouble,” I said, shaking my head. I would eat it all. He had no idea. If we had separate bags, I at least would stop when my bag was empty.

“It’s no trouble,” he said, but when he appeared, he had two bags. He sat at least a foot from me, and I tried not to stare. His arms and legs had the same fur on them that his head did. We’d never even been alone together since that first night we’d met, let alone seen each other in our pajamas. I hunched my shoulders a little, embarrassed at my own pajamas. My legs were long and freckled and probably a little hairy under my pajama shorts, which were shorter than I liked to wear in company. I’d stopped wearing my socks or sports bra, either, so it was just…me. Under my tank top. Free Lindy.

He was very pointedly watching the movie, though, so I took my cue from him and did the same.

Helluva distraction, though.

The pirate was challenging a bald man to a ‘battle of wits,’ and the man was holding a knife to the throat of…Robin Wright? I’d have to see the beginning of this movie.

I picked at the popcorn self-consciously, watching in surprise as, mid-sentence, the bald man fell over, apparently dead.

I looked over and saw that Adrian had already finished his popcorn. “Do you want some more?” I asked, glad to be able to share. Hoping he hadn’t misconstrued any of my actions. I held the bag by the bottom and tilted the open top toward him.

“Nah,” he declined. “You said you really like popcorn.”

“I do,” I said. I wasn’t going to lie. “But, you can have a little bit.” I shook the bag, and he reached for it.

“Okay.” He scooted closer to me, and took a handful in his clawed hand.

Aaand then the thunder came, really loud, and I jumped, spilling half of it on him.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, red in the face. “God…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Adrian said kindly, and he picked up some of the easier-to-reach kernels in his lap, depositing them into his own empty bag. “We can get the rest in the morning.”

I hid my face in my hands again. “It’s just…it’s just that I get really scared of thunder and lightning,” I said, the explanation babbling from my mouth in a compulsory way. “When I was little, my father used to go out at night, after I went to sleep,” I babbled, and the memory of _then_ came, that night I was thirteen, and he’d gone out and come back with Hob. I shoved it away. No thank you. “And then, if some noise woke me up, I’d find him not there. I’d...get so scared,” I finished. I was not going to make myself cry. I was not.

“That must have been hard for you,” Adrian said kindly. He didn’t say anything about how I was hiding my face again. “My parents used to yell at me when I got up at night. They’d tell me to be brave, which meant leave them alone.” I uncovered my eyes, and he was offering me my bag back. “You have the rest,” he said, and in the dark, his voice was so kind and so gentle.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling. “I like…” God. I clacked my mouth shut audibly.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I’d almost told him I liked the way his voice made me feel. What? What was I even saying? You don’t just _say_ stuff like that. “It’s just…thanks. For the popcorn,” I finished lamely.

And I turned back to the movie, where the pirate had taken off his mask to reveal Cary Elwes with a pencil-thin mustache. Man. I had to see this movie.

I blatantly did not look at Adrian, but…sitting there, in the dark, with the blue light of the television on us, sitting close enough that I could hear him breathing. And the rain softening the thunder crashes…I felt better. Safer. Safe enough I fell asleep, actually.

I felt myself drifting off, at first, but then I thought I would say something after the next scene.

Next thing I knew, it was pitch black. And my face was resting on something warm. And there were arms around me; under my knees and around my shoulders.

_Hands on me, pushing me, holding me down, touching me, I don’t want to I don’t want to, Please please don’t make me—_

“What the hell is…” my heart was pounding hard. What was happening?

“You fell asleep. I was carrying you to your room.”

God. Adrian. God. God. I could feel the rumble of his voice on my cheek. It was Adrian. God.

“Don’t worry,” he said then. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. You can trust me. And…I won’t drop you.”

_Just keeping warm, sweetheart. It won’t even tickle. You can just go back to sleep, after._

Fucking asshole.

“I can walk,” I said, aware of the fur of his arms under my knees.

“Okay,” he said immediately. “If you want to. But…aren’t you tired?”

But he meant it. He had stopped, so he could put me down, if I said to.

“Yes,” I said, yawning. “A little.”

“Well,” he started walking again. Stairs. We were going up the stairs. “Trust me, then.”

“I know,” I said sleepily. If he really wanted to do _that_…do what Hob did…he’d have done it downstairs. On the couch. Or at any point before now. “I thought if you were going to hurt me, you’d have done it already,” I did say aloud. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Hmm.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Adrian said hurriedly. “I…can’t explain why I want you here. But it’s not for that. I…I swear, Lindy. I swear to God it’s not.”

“I understand,” I said, and I was so tired. And I didn’t get it. But I understood the intent of it, anyway.

Stepping, stepping, up the stairs, down the hall. “No one’s ever carried me,” I mumbled. “Not that I can remember.”

His grip on me seemed to firm up. Get tighter. “I’m very strong,” Adrian said, and I smiled. Like a little kid bragging. What a dork.

He let go of me, and distantly, I felt him pulling my comforter over me.

_Shh. Shh. Don’t freak. It’s all right. Relax, sweetheart. It’s okay. _

Goddammit all.

I opened my eyes, and my heart jolted because he was still there. Standing over me. Adrian.

“Good night, Lindy,” I heard him say, and he…he moved away. God. God.

“Adrian?” I mumbled, because I had to be sure. I had to know. That voice was so familiar. Not…not Hob. God, no. But…familiar. I…I liked the way his voice made me feel. “Good night,” I said, then, not knowing if he’d heard me.

“Good night, Lindy. Thanks for sitting up with me. It was nice,” he said quietly.

“Nice,” I repeated. Yes, his voice was nice. “You know, in the darkness, your voice seems so familiar,” I mumbled.


	10. The Fifth Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy and Adrian go exploring. Adrian has a cool floor of junk that one can explore! An Adventure! Dancing! Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?

The temp started to recede once September hit, and it was…a relief. Less oppressive, less stuffy, all around. I was glad to have a semblance of a routine, here. I had even started thinking of it as my home.

Is that weird?

I mean…I know. Okay? I do. It was a bad situation that brought me here. And I still thought about my dad, but…it was just so nice. To not have to worry about his needs. Was he eating? Had he let the bread go moldy? Had he taken any of my stuff? Could I expect Hob at the doorstep when I left for school? Would my dad even be there when I got home?  
  
Instead he was (I hoped) at rehab, and Sarah and her boyfriend were visiting him, maybe Emma, too, but she hadn’t really kept in touch since moving to Connecticut with her fiancée.  
  
The thunderstorms of late August heralded more, colder and wetter, and it made more sense that I didn’t leave the house.  
  
Honestly, I didn’t even really think about it. I was reading, and studying, and learning. I decided one day, though, that I wasn’t quite through exploring.  
  
“So…what’s on the fifth floor?” I asked Adrian randomly.  
  
It was about 2:00, after we’d finished tutoring for the day, and usually when we settled into serious reading time until dinner. But like I said, I wanted more today. I wanted to go exploring.  
  
“Huh?” Adrian asked articulately, and I rolled my eyes.  
  
“The fifth floor,” I repeated. “You’re on one,” I said, ticking off my fingers, “the kitchen and living room are on two, I’m on three, and Will and Magda are on four. But when I came here, I saw five sets of windows,” I said matter-of-factly.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Was he stalling? I raised my eyebrows.  
  
“Nothing,” Adrian answered belatedly. “Old boxes and stuff.”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Wow, that sounds interesting,” I stood and started walking to the stairs. “Can we go look?”  
  
“It’s just boxes,” Adrian grumbled. But he got up and started following me. Victory! “What’s interesting about that? It’ll make you sneeze.”  
  
“Do you know what’s in the boxes?” I wheedled, spinning around and shooting him a look.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“That’s what’s interesting! There could be…buried treasure up there!”  
  
“In Brooklyn?” Adrian shot back flatly.  
  
“Okay, maybe not real treasure, but other treasure! Letters and pictures!” I kept trudging upwards, and he kept following me.  
  
“You mean junk,” he said, with no sense of adventure.  
  
“You don’t have to come,” I said, sticking my tongue out at him. “I can look by myself, if it isn’t your stuff.”  
  
But he followed me, up and up and up, not even grumbling about it. Smart guy.  
  
We got to the top and I took it in. It was…a room. No! I would not be disappointed! We just had to explore!  
  
“Oh, look,” I said, trotting over to the window. “There’s a sofa by the window.” I settled into it. It was pretty comfy.  
  
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool to sit there and watch the people go by,” Adrian said, stepping into the room slowly. “I mean, it must have been for whoever lived here,” he clarified. Like I’d judge him for people-watching. I was totally a people-watcher. Well…sort of. I  
was more of a…sit in the midst of people and read…er. But…I could relate. Jane Eyre was a people-watcher.  
  
“Oh, you’re right,” I said breezily, looking out at the trees. They were just starting to lose their green, and they weren’t brown, they were…nice. Hints of red and orange and…it was just nice. “You can see all the way to the subway station from here,” I noticed.  
  
“Which station is that?”  
  
Adrian didn’t seem to have heard me. “You can watch people go from the train to their jobs, and come back in the afternoon.”  
  
I looked at him.  
  
“Not…that I’ve ever done that,” he mumbled, and I smiled.  
  
“I would,” I said gently, and I looked back out the window. “I bet people did that all the time. You can see…whole lives here.”  
  
I wondered if anyone had ever watched me, like this. Watched my life. Watched my comings and goings, watched when I circled the block to avoid Hob when he was in my house. Watched me sit there for hours, just reading. I was probably kind of boring. But…anyone I saw outside might say the same. It was still…interesting. To watch people, and imagine how different their lives were from mine.  
  
“Um,” Adrian sort of cleared his throat. “How about the boxes?” he pointed to a few stacks in the corner.  
  
“Oh, you’re right,” I said, trying not to sound…emotional? Disappointed? What was wrong with me? Just…lost in my thoughts, looking out at the pretty trees, imagining my life were different. How different it was already, since I lived here, now, instead of with my dad. How different it could have been, if I’d always lived like this.  
  
Yes, I was…technically a prisoner. But…it was just Adrian, who I could trust, since he was super strong and hadn’t done anything in the months I’d been here to hurt me, a blind man, and an old woman. I could probably leave whenever I wanted. I had realized that…some time ago, I think.  
  
But…I liked feeling warm and I liked learning from Will, and I liked learning from Magda, and I liked reading and not having to worry about anything…  
  
But I didn’t like the feeling, however small, that I was in any way…trapped.  
  
“The window gets more interesting around five,” Adrian was saying. “That’s when people start coming from work.”  
  
I smiled and looked at him.  
  
“Well…I might have sat in that seat…once or twice,” he admitted.  
  
“Oh, I see,” I teased.  
  
And without another word, we both walked over to the boxes.  
  
The first one…was full of books. Books! My recurring theme, I suppose. My motif? Hmm. I’d have to do more research.  
  
“Look!” I squealed, pulling out a dusty paperback. “A Little Princess! That was my favorite in fifth grade!” I showed it to Adrian, who smiled, but he might have been more amused at my expense than excited about the book.  
  
“Jane Eyre!” I shrieked a moment later. “It’s my all-time favorite!”  
  
Adrian rolled his eyes. At me! “You have a lot of favorites,” he said. “Don’t you already have that?”  
  
“Yeah,” I admitted. “But look at this one!”  
  
He obligingly took the book from me, examining the cover, and then flipping through the contents. It was printed in 1943, and it had illustrations.  
  
“I never saw a grown-up book with pictures before,” he said, smiling. “They’re cool.”  
  
I took the book back from him, hugging it to my chest. “I love this book,” I said passionately. “I love how it shows how if two people are meant to be together, they will be, even if something separates them. That there’s…a magic to it,” I gushed. I might have  
blushed, too, from saying it aloud, but Adrian didn’t laugh.  
  
“Do you believe that?” he asked instead, no mocking. “That magic stuff?”  
  
I frowned. “I don’t know,” I said aloud. For all I loved the book…it wasn’t very realistic, I supposed.  
  
“I like the pictures,” Adrian said again.  
  
“Don’t they capture the book perfectly?” I looked at one with him, with Rochester and Jane kissing under a tree.  
  
“Don’t know,” Adrian said, shrugging. “I’ve never read it. Isn’t it kind of…a girly book?”  
  
My mouth dropped open. Yes, it was a romance. But…but this book! Jane Eyre needs to be read! “You’ve never read it? Really? Well, you have to read it. It’s the most wonderful book in the world—a love story. I read it every time we had a power outage. It’s the perfect book for candlelight.” I declared, and I held the book out to him.  
  
“Power outage?” he asked, not quite taking the book yet.  
  
“We had more than most people, I guess,” I shrugged. Sometimes…things got in the way of my dad paying the electric bill.”  
  
He did take the book, then, and I smiled. We moved on to other boxes. Scrapbooks, newspaper clippings, all to do with Ida Dunleavy.  
  
“Listen to this,” I patted Adrian’s shoulder to read aloud from the article I’d been skimming, “’Ida Dunleavy will be remembered as one of the great stage starlets of our time.’”  
  
“Guess not,” Adrian shrugged. “I’ve never heard of her.”  
  
“Look how pretty she was,” I showed him the picture I’d found: a beautiful woman with dark hair and one of those flapper dresses.  
  
There was a wedding, ‘Actress Ida Dunleavy Weds Prominent Banker, Stanford Williams.’ And then the plays and acting turned into news of babies. ‘Eugene Dunleavy Williams, born in 1927,’ ‘Wilbur Stanford Williams, born in 1929.’ Notes in fancy, old-fashioned handwriting, locks of golden hair…  
  
And then.  
  
“Banker Stanford Williams Takes Own Life,” Adrian read.  
  
“He killed himself,” I frowned. “Jumped out a window. Poor Ida.”  
  
“He must’ve been one of those guys who lost everything in the ’29 market crash,” Adrian speculated, turning the clipping over, as if to find more information.  
  
“Do you think they lived here?” I wondered, fingering the yellow-gold paper.  
  
“Or maybe their kids or grandkids,” Adrian nodded.  
  
“That’s…so sad,” I flipped through the rest of the scrapbook, but it ended soon after; a few pictures of some little boys, about three or four, and then nothing. I moved the scrapbook out of the way to reveal a smaller box underneath, long and thin.  
  
I lifted the lid, and pulled out some tissue paper, and it was so old it crumbled to dust in my hands, but then…  
  
“Oh!” I exclaimed. A dress. A beautiful, satin green dress. And it looked like the same as in the black-and-white photo. The one Ida had been wearing on stage. “Look! It’s Ida’s dress from the photo!”  
  
I held it up to myself, feeling the drape and swishing the skirt.  
  
“You should try it on,” Adrian encouraged, and I blushed.  
  
“Oh, it’d never fit me,” I protested. But I didn’t put it down. My fingers were drawn to the beads and the lace, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to try this dress on.  
  
“Try it,” Adrian encouraged again. “Go downstairs if you’re worried about me looking.”  
  
“It’s not that,” I protested, but I did feel the continued heat on my face from the blush. I lifted the dress high and made a spin, then, and before I could talk myself out of it, I left, trotting downstairs.  
  
I didn’t expect it to fit, but it did. Oh, it was gorgeous. It was nicer than anything I’d ever felt on my skin, and it looked like…I don’t know. Like I’d had it tailored just for me. I dug in my bag for some makeup; some lip gloss, anything. I wanted to see if I…if I could feel pretty.  
  
Ha ha, right? Like that stupid song? From West Side Story? Maria just felt pretty because a boy loved her. I was…pretty sure Adrian liked me. Like, a lot. But it didn’t make me feel pretty, really. Maybe I’m just shallow, but…I dunno. Beauty is a stupid construct of comparison. My teeth are a little too crooked, and my skin is a little too freckly to really be beautiful. And yet it might be fair to say I was beautiful compared to Adrian. And how was that fair at all?  
  
I dug out a lipstick that I had thought was too trashy the first time I saw it, but it wasn’t that bad on. More…classic, Marilyn Monroe red. Not…hooker red. And I pinched my cheeks to make them a little pinker. And then I was done. I returned to the fifth floor, smiling to see Adrian in a scarf and some gloves, looking at another box. But then he turned…and stared at me.  
  
Like…a lot.

I felt super self-conscious, actually, and realized that, aside from the night he’d seen me in my pajamas, this was maybe the most revealing thing I’d worn in front of him, in its own way. It didn’t show more skin, per say, but it was a tight dress, and it fit really well.  
  
“Take your braid out,” Adrian murmured, and I blinked, not sure I’d heard him correctly.  
  
It was his funeral. My braid was only there for his protection, really. To keep my hair from taking over the state. I made a face, and then proceeded to do as he asked.  
  
It was still humid; the thunderstorms hadn’t helped that, but my hair seemed to be behaving itself. I fluffed it a little, wishing I had a mirror, and Adrian just…stared.  
  
“God! You’re beautiful, Lindy,” he whispered then, and I burned bright red and laughed.  
  
“Oh, right,” I snorted. “You only think I’m beautiful because…” Shut up. God. Shut up. How could I even think of finishing that sentence in front of him?  
  
“Because I’m ugly?” he said aloud, and now I was blushing for a completely different reason.  
  
“I wasn’t going to say that,” I insisted.  
  
“Don’t worry about hurting my feelings,” Adrian said, and it was so sad! He sounded…resigned. Disconnected. “I know I’m ugly. How could I not?”  
  
“But I really wasn’t,” I stammered. “What I was going to say was you think I’m beautiful because you don’t…know any other girls. Any beautiful ones.”  
  
“You’re beautiful,” he said again, and I looked away. And then, like he’d read my mind, he handed me a mirror so I could see myself, and I took it, grateful for the distraction. It was a really nice mirror. Old fashioned, square, with a silver frame, and some kind of…leaf filigree. I examined my hair, smoothing some of the places where the humidity was already making the waves curlier.  
  
“I saw an old Victrola in one of the boxes,” he said after a minute. “We should see if it works.”  
  
“Oh, really? Like, a record player? Cool!” I handed him the mirror back and clapped my hands.  
  
I watched as he loaded the disc—it said “The Blue Danube” on it—onto the turntable and positioned the needle. “I think we put this like this,” he muttered, “Then wind it up.”  
  
But when he wound it up, no sound came out.  
  
I frowned. “Well…it’s okay. I don’t know how to waltz, anyway,” I tried to shrug it off.  
  
“I do,” Adrian said unexpectedly. “My f—there was a dance lesson on TV once. I could show you. It’s easy.”  
  
I caught the slip. What had he been about to say? His father? But I ignored it, since he did. “Easy for you,” I retorted, and Adrian smiled. It was interesting, when Adrian smiled. His face wasn’t…well, it didn’t look like it would be a thing. For him to smile. Around the snout. But he managed. And it…well, it didn’t make his face worse.  
  
“For you, too,” he said, and offered me a gloved hand. “May I have this dance?”  
  
“What do I do?” I said, and angled myself to stand more directly in front of him.  
  
“Take my hand.”  
  
I did. “What about the other hand?”  
  
“Um, on my shoulder. And mine…” he slid his hand uncertainly to my waist. “And then just, um, mirror what I do.” He moved his feet, and I looked down at them. “Forward, side, close.”  
  
I tried, but then remembered he’d said to mirror him, so did that mean I went backward? Or had he already done what I was supposed to do?  
  
“Here,” he said, when he saw me struggling. And then he pulled me close to him. Like, even closer. I felt our legs touching, and I turned red, but it did help. After a few steps, I wasn’t bumping into him anymore, or stepping on his feet.  
  
“There’s no music,” I pointed out, when it got awkward. How did people like dancing? After I’d gotten to the point where I didn’t need to look constantly at my feet, I was struck with the realization that we’d been in silence, standing very close to one another, and not saying anything.  
  
“Yes there is,” he smiled, and then…then…Oh my God. He started humming “The Blue Danube.” You know the one. Dun dun-dun-dun dun. Dun dun. Dun dun. Like on all those Bugs Bunny cartoons? Usually they would play it when someone was ice skating? Or maybe it was Donald Duck? I remembered quacking. Anyway.  
  
We glided away from the boxes, toward the middle of the room, and when he started to try to turn me, it tangled us up a bit, so then we were even closer than we were, and my heart was pounding, and I could, like, smell his smells. I’d forgotten what guys smelled like. Guys have this ‘guy’ smell. Like, part deodorant, part aftershave, maybe? Or shampoo? Cologne? Other guy-things that aren’t, like, body spray or perfume?  
  
He ended the song, and then he took a step back and bowed at the waist. “You dance divinely, my dear Ida,” he said in a faux British accent, and I giggled.  
  
“I’ve never known anyone like you, Adrian,” I said aloud, and I realized how close we were still standing.  
  
“Huh. I guess not,” he joked, and I rolled my eyes.  
  
“No,” I said firmly. “I mean I’ve never had a friend like you, Adrian.”  
  
He didn’t answer, and I digested what I’d just said. Told him. It was true, I realized. I…hadn’t really…had real friends. Not with my life. Not with my dad. Not in a long, long time. “I…I hated you. For forcing me to be here,” I breathed.  
  
“I know,” he answered immediately. “But I had to, Lindy. I couldn’t be alone anymore. That’s the only—”  
  
“You think I don’t get it? You must have been so lonely. I understand,” I interrupted him. We were still standing close. I hadn’t stood so close to him before, and never for so long. I looked at him, and I really, really meant it. And I don’t think he got what a huge thing it was for me. To name him as a friend. To forgive him, and look beyond the circumstances of us existing here together.  
  
“Do you?” he breathed, and I nodded.  
  
After a moment I braved a question. “Adrian…why are you…like this?” I held my breath to wait for the answer, but it seemed to go over his head.  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Nothing,” I turned away. It had been hard enough to ask. I didn’t want to explain. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“I’ve always been like this,” he said belatedly to my back. “Am I too horrible to look at?”  
  
Is that what he thought? His default? I considered. It wasn’t that…he was hideous. Just…in comparison. In comparison with what a “normal” human guy looked like. In comparison with what a “normal” human looked like, period. “No,” I answered, realizing my silence for so long might have been damaging. I turned back around, apologetic.  
  
“Your looks mean nothing to me,” I said, and I was telling the truth. Even from the beginning, I hadn’t cared what he allegedly looked like. It’s one’s behavior. One’s actions. That should determine ugliness. Then Adrian could be George Clooney and Hob could be Gollum. “I’ve gotten used to them. You’ve been so kind to me, Adrian.”  
  
“I’m your friend,” he answered, nodding. And I was struck by how he said ‘friend.’ It didn’t sound, to me, like it had sounded when I said it.  
  
And then, like some signal had been given, we smiled and turned back to the boxes. We spent way too long, up there. We stayed all afternoon without studying at all, and had to leave to wash up for dinner because we’d gotten so dusty.  
  
And…I don’t know if it was something we’d said, or some unspoken signal again, but…  
  
I had more days, after that, when I…wanted to feel pretty. More days, as the weather got colder, where I’d wear my hair down, or put a little makeup on. I don’t know if it was for me, or for Adrian, or our friendship, which was a deep, abiding friendship, despite us not knowing each other for very long, and despite my feeling that Adrian, at least, wanted it to be more than friendship.  
  
But…I did look at him differently. Because he saw himself as ugly, and I’d realized how much I…didn’t. I mean…I know. I know, okay? I know he totally was. He didn’t look human. But…I knew him. I knew him like I knew myself, it seemed. I had shared so much of myself with him; the important parts. The parts I liked best. He knew more about me than maybe anyone alive. I hadn’t had a confidante, like, ever, and I hadn’t talked with anyone like I talked with him since…since my mom died.  
  
And that. That was beautiful.


	11. The Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy contemplates things. And there is a discussion about leaves. She has a "why."

October was there before I knew it, and I was firmly entrenched in my new life. I woke up early every day to do yoga with Will, I did tutoring with Adrian and Will until about two, and then me and Adrian usually spent more time together. We read, yes, and we did our homework like good students, but sometimes we just joked and chatted and got to be normal teenagers, and that was nice, too.

I didn’t miss my dad. Like…I felt guilty, sometimes. About not being there to take care of him. But I sure as hell didn’t miss it. Creepy guys hanging out on our doorstep, or coming into the house while I was sleeping, my dad stealing my stuff, never having proper food in the house, because even if I got something, Dad either let it go bad, he ate it, or (more likely) he traded it for a fix, somehow. A lot of the time the only food I got was a Tuttle, though of course the bratty rich kids always teased whoever was poor enough to qualify for free and reduced lunch, like yours truly. I hated those jerks.  
  
Something I did think recently, though, was a wondering, fleeting thought of whether or not anyone at Tuttle even noticed I was gone. The school year had started without me, and I was in the glorious Autumn with Adrian, studying every day in a rose garden, which firmly connected the scent of roses with him, and not with Kyle Kingsbury.  
  
I can see leaves through the windows, and, just like I suspected, they were beautiful in their autumn foliage. Like they were trying to outdo each other in just how pretty their dying leaves could be.  
  
I must have said something aloud to the effect of it being a shame we couldn’t go out and play in the leaves when we were studying one day, and Adrian immediately frowned.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I wrecked your life.”  
  
It took me aback for a moment. It wasn’t what I meant at all. I had meant more that we were too big to do it, and it would be silly. I hadn’t even thought about the whole “I was technically his prisoner” thing in weeks. “No,” I said firmly. “No, you didn’t. Not really. I understand.”  
  
“Understand what?” Adrian said, and I smiled gently.  
  
“I understand what it’s like to be lonely. To be alone.” I took his hand and held it, and it wasn’t even a thing I was grossed out by, it was just such a natural thing to do. “I’ve been alone all my life, even if there were other people around,” I said, and he nodded.  
  
“You ever see an animal? In a cage?” he asked after a moment. I didn’t indicate one way or another. I’d learned, about Adrian, that he had really interesting thoughts to get out, but he can easily be discouraged from sharing them. If I said yes, he’d maybe drop it. If I said no, he’d maybe elaborate, but maybe not. But I’d learned to just stay silent. Let him know I was listening. “Once, I saw a tiger at the zoo,” he said slowly. “He had this tiny area, and all day long, he’d walk from left to right, sit down, stand up, walk back, then front, and repeat. It was…It was really sad, because he was supposed to be a TIGER, and he didn’t even have the freedom of a housecat.”  
  
“That’s weird,” I said, and then I felt stupid. Why had I said that?  
  
“That’s how I feel sometimes,” Adrian confessed, skipping over my comment. “Like that tiger.”  
  
I nodded, and watched him for a moment. Adrian has the grace of a tiger, to be sure. And power. Definitely. I get the feeling he could really hurt someone if he wanted, but with me, he’s gentle as a kitten.  
  
“Me too,” I said, then. “All my life, I felt exactly the same way.” I realized it was true. My cage-my prison—had been my life. My dad. My sisters had left with their boyfriends, my mom had died, and so what did that leave me to do? Wait for someone to take me away? No. I’d had a plan. An escape plan. Digging my tunnel. Get the scholarship. Go to college. Make my own way. Get the hell out.  
  
“I like being here with you,” I said, and I smiled. “I only wish we could go someplace, not be inside this house all the time,” I admitted.  
  
“I’d like that too,” Adrian said wistfully. “I know it’s not fair of me…” He turned, staring out at the roses. “I keep you here, like one of my roses. You should be able to go out places.”  
  
He was making it weird again, and I groaned good-naturedly. “Not just that. I wish you could go out, too,” I clarified. “Go to the park, enjoy the fall leaves.”  
  
“I wish,” he murmured. “It’s just…”  
  
“I know,” I intercepted, before he could say anything horrible about himself. “You’re worried someone will see you.”  
  
“No, not that,” he shook his head, and I frowned.  
  
“What, then?”  
  
“Mostly, I’m afraid you’ll leave,” he said quietly.  
  
“I won’t,” I promised.  
  
“How can you even say that? I’d leave, if I were you,” he grumbled.  
  
I furrowed my face into a stubborn frown. “You’re not me. I could leave if I wanted to, Adrian. You think I couldn’t find a way out if I wanted?”  
  
He seemed doubtful, and I gestured around us. Was I tied to the chair? Were there bars on the windows? I had realized a while ago that the only people standing in my way were Will, Magda, and Adrian himself. And I’d also come to realize that none of them would hurt me. I knew I could leave whenever I wanted. It was my own decision to stay.  
  
“So…why?” He asked, then. “Why do you stay?”  
  
I was taken aback. “I…I don’t know,” I faltered. “I guess…I’ve never had a friend like you. Maybe…maybe I’ve never had a friend. A good friend. I’m…”I blushed. “I’m happy, here. Happier than I’ve ever been. I…I feel safe. For, like, the first time in my life.”  
  
I felt bad—I knew me saying ‘friend’ so much was probably crushing him. He made those gazing eyes at me too much for me to think he just thought of me as a friend. I was pretty sure my suspicions were correct, and that he thought of me as way more than a friend.  
  
And…I think…maybe…I might…I might just feel the same.  
  
It’s…it’s crazy, right? I…I love him. I love that I feel safe with him. Yet…I know that I can’t be…like, in love with him.  
  
And…weirdly, it’s not about his looks. I’ve said, and I’ll reiterate: I didn’t ever really care about the way he looks. I got over that in the first few days of knowing him, because it’s his actions that I see. His actions are a reflection of his soul. And his soul…it’s beautiful.  
  
The real problem? The real kicker? Adrian needs me too much. Like…I know I’m not expected to, like, be his nursemaid, or anything. But I also know that if I was with him, I’d be trapped in this house, unable to have a normal life…just like I was trapped with my father.  
  
I can’t be with someone who needs me. Not anymore.  
  
And, like a dork, I have the thought: If this were a fairy tale, there would be a curse on him, and I’d have to kiss him, or marry him, or say I loved him to break the curse, and then we could live happily ever after. But…this is reality. And there’s no such thing as magic, and there’s no such thing as curses, and no matter what happens, he will be him, and I will be me, and the world…will be the world.  
  
I did have the thought, and maybe it might have crossed your mind: Am I using his neediness as a crutch? An excuse not to love him? And the reality is that I’m icked out by his looks, and I don’t want to love a freak?  
  
But…no. That’s not it. It can’t be it. I haven’t cared all along what he looks like. I do…I do love him. In spite of? Because of his looks? But…I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t spend my whole childhood saddled with my father, and then turn around and spend my whole adult life saddled with someone else needy. And…I know. I know it’s not his fault. He just…God. He just wants someone to be with. But…  
  
It can’t be me.  
  
So…how pathetic am I? How clichéd? I love him, but…I’ll never tell him.  
  
And, the dork that he is, he probably can’t tell the difference if I pretend not to notice how obvious he’s being.  
  
“Maybe…one day, we’ll be able to go,” I say, realizing I’ve been lost in my thoughts, and he’s been politely waiting in silence. “To play in the leaves.”  
  
It wasn’t two days later that I went out to the greenhouse after yoga…to find a surprise.  
  
Oh, my God.  
  
Leaves.  
  
Hundreds? Thousands? I don’t even know. Millions? Of leaves. Brown, yellow, red, and orange. In bright piles on the concrete floor, some piles so high they almost covered the rosebushes.  
  
I don’t know how long I just stood there, openmouthed, until I heard footsteps, then turned to see Adrian standing there.  
  
“How did you do this?” I asked. I gasped. I knew it was him. It had to be. But…but how?  
  
“It wasn’t easy,” Adrian admitted, and he seemed sheepish. “I was up…half the night, in the street, with a flashlight and a rake, just…just gathering them. I couldn’t even see which ones were pretty. I just…I just took them all. Then I brought them in here and sorted….the best ones for you.”  
  
Half the night my ass. He’d probably not even slept.  
  
What a freaking dork.  
  
I looked at the leaves again. They…they were magical. They looked even more vivid than the leaves on the trees.  
  
“They’re perfect,” I said.  
  
“You were right, before,” Adrian said quickly. “I…I don’t want to go outside. I don’t…I can’t let people see me. It would be too embarrassing…”  
  
“You’re not that bad,” I argued, but he shook his head vehemently.  
  
“I can’t take the chance. What if…what if someone took pictures, posted them online? What if…what if they made fun of me? What if everyone came to stare at the freak?”  
  
I just nodded. I understood. I hated it, but I lived in this world, too.  
  
  
“But…I would do anything for you, Lindy,” he said eagerly. “Anything…anything else, at least. If…if you want leaves, or flowers, or…or diamonds. I’ll…I’ll get them for you.”  
  
And…he seemed so earnest. And it made me sad, because I knew I couldn’t make him happy the way he wanted. So I changed the subject. Sort of.  
  
I ran through the leaves, then stooped to pick some up and threw them at him. Then, I collapsed into one of the piles, and he followed and tentatively joined me.  
  
“I think we should take the day off school,” he said, and I smiled. “To play in the leaves.”  
  
“Like a snow day,” I agreed.  
  
So…so we did. We ran and jumped in the piles and threw the leaves at each other (and, it must be confessed, at Will, when he tried to suggest we start with Geometry, and at Pilot when he proved quite distractible), and then we raked them all back up and started all over again.  
  
It…may have been the most fun I’ve ever had.


	12. The Cost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindy's worth was set, once. She decides to share the story with Adrian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter tells more about the rape*

Halloween wasn't as fun as I thought it would be, in this big house. Adrien told a story about trying to go out last year because he could pass his looks off as a costume, but it hadn't ended well, and he didn't really want to try again this year.

We entertained the notion of doing the house up right, making it spooky and haunted, and trying to scare the kids who came trick-or-treating, but it was Adrien, again, who ultimately nixed the idea. And it was, get this—because he didn't want to scare little kids.

Like…isn't that adorable?

But I couldn't say that to him, because he'd think I was making fun of him, he had such a serious face as he said it, and he was being so noble, but…it was so cute. He didn't want to use his looks to scare little kids.

That is noble. I'm a horrible person.

Anyway.

So Halloween was kind of a bust. I put some makeup on, and a witch hat, and Adrien donned a Dracula cape, and we had Magda get us candy in case trick-or-treaters came, but of course we had, like, five. So we ate the candy and watched Phantom of the Opera, and any other Halloween movies we could find on Satellite. Which ended up being Addams Family, Casper, and then we switched back and forth between Young Frankenstein and Hocus Pocus. I saw Clue as an option somewhere, too, and that's a good one, I've seen it, but it lost to Addams Family, I think.

(I admitted that I didn't like horror at the best of times, and Adrien was a good sport watching these cutesy non-scary Halloween movies with me. I told him he could watch the scary ones to his heart's content after I went to sleep.)

We talked a lot about kind of 'Halloween-esque' books, too. And of course, nerd that he is, Adrien read, like, all of them last year. Frankenstein, of course, Dracula, The Picture of Dorian Grey, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. (I threw in Stephen King, just to be a contrarian, and it started an argument about the difference between reading horror and watching horror, and Adrien forcing me to promise to watch a few horror movies with him, and I agreed only on the condition that I would only watch a horror movie if I'd already read the book, and only during the daytime.)

He told me about a short story he remembered that was creepy, and I remembered it, but not by name. About a woman who poisoned her husband and kept his corpse in her house and didn't tell anyone he'd died.

So then we were trying to creep each other out, and I told him a scary story I heard once about some girls who'd seen a woman in the woods and then were told it was an omen of death, and then one by one, all the girls died.

He told me one about a boy who was locked in a room on Halloween and nearly murdered, and then could see ghosts, who wanted him to help avenge their deaths. (He later admitted it wasn't a book he'd read; it had been a movie plot. The movie was The Lady in White, and I told him if we watched it during the day, I'd give it a shot.)

I did start to drift off in the middle of the third movie, which is partially the cause of why we kept switching between two.

It was so nice.

I felt so relaxed and normal and safe.

I was usually gone for Halloween in my old neighborhood. No one in their right mind would go trick-or-treating there, and no one had ever really taken me since my sisters moved out, so I never really did it. I'd go to Halloween parties and Halloween dances and when I was younger, we'd take the train to a nicer neighborhood and trick-or-treat there. My sisters knew where to get the best candy, and we'd all eat it, or as much of it as we could, as we rode the train home. Because by the next morning the candy was always gone. We never knew if our Dad just ate it? Or why he took it? But it was always gone.

The next thing I knew, Adrien was standing over me, and I jolted a little to see him there. I'd kind of dozed off, I guess.

"Shh. Shh," he said gently, "Don't freak, it's all right."

God. Oh, God.

"No!" I said loudly, and I shoved him violently, sitting up abruptly, and—

But it was Adrien.

It was Adrien.

I was safe.

"Um…Lindy? You…all right?" he didn't move closer, just let me stare at him for a minute, breathing hard.

For that moment, in the dark, everything had changed. For that moment, when he'd said those words, I'd been somewhere else, and he'd been someone else, and I had been very, very scared.

"Sorry," I murmured. My heart was pounding, and I felt the back of the couch behind me, and I was very aware of my position relative to his; my knees drawn up to my chest—I'd been ready to kick him, to launch myself over the back of the couch, or something. It was hard to come down from that. Adrenaline rush, I guess. "I…I shouldn't have…I shouldn't have pushed you, Adrien. I'm sorry," I babbled.

"Was…was it a nightmare? Did…Did I scare you? I know it's probably hard. If…if I'm the first thing you see when you wake up," Adrien hadn't moved closer, and I hadn't uncurled. God. I was shaking, now. My heart was still thudding uncomfortably in my chest.

"It…It wasn't you," I tried to assure him.

It was fucking Hob.

"Lindy…are you okay?"

I would be. It would be fine. This hadn't happened in a while. I nodded my head in answer, but I also started to cry. Stupid tired brain, making everything so emotional. I was seriously fine. I finally felt safe, here, not on red-alert all the time, and this happens. I wiped at the tears that fell habitually, with the heels of my palms.

"Um…is there…something I can do?" Oh, poor Adrien. He didn't know how to deal with emotions.

"Hug me," I forced my arms to open, forced my legs down, to extend the invitation, and the smart boy sat down next to me again and enveloped me in the best hug.

It was weird, because…Adrien is so big and scary. But when he hugged me, I felt safe. My heartbeat finally started to slow down, and I took a good, deep breath of him, not these shallow breaths I'd been breathing.

This was what I was supposed to feel. I could trust Adrien. I…God, I loved him. I loved this boy. This was one of the reasons. Being in his presence made me feel this way. Safe. I hadn't felt this safe around another person in a long time. And…it had been so fucking exhausting. When I was the only one I trusted.

Stockholm Syndrome? We haven't thought about that in a while, have we? I've only known him since July. It was the end of October. But screw it. Embrace the Stockholm, baby.

"Do…you wanna talk about it?" he murmured after a moment, and I sighed, seriously contemplating it. I didn't want him to secretly think I had been scared of his…beastliness. Because I hadn't. Not at all.

But…I'd never told anyone before.

I mean…I'd told a few doctors, but I'd given a phony name and ran out before they sicced CPS on me.

This was completely different.

"Mmm," I said in answer, not ready to pull away. Not ready to be done with this hug.

"If you don't want to, or…or if you can't…that's cool. I was…I'm just worried about you. I care," he said a little louder, and I felt the rumble of his voice in his chest, and I loved him. I loved him.

"I can," I said, and saying that, and pulling away from the hug, I felt nervous. I felt exposed. "I can talk about it," I said firmly, and my voice didn't shake, but my heart was thudding, again. I fought to keep my knees from drawing back up to my chest. I clasped my hands together, instead, twisting and pulling at my fingers. My nerves could go there, and then words would come out. Right? That's how it worked?

Adrien, for his part, stayed quiet. Smart boy. If he wanted me to talk, he couldn't talk, too. He couldn't guide this conversation out of me. He'd sensed its weight, by now.

"You said something," I started, and wanted to kick myself. Like this was his fault? How could he have known? "Um, and what you said reminded me of, um, something else." So far so good. This was a thing. We were talking, now. Talking about it. Because I loved him. Because I trusted him.

Because he fucking cared enough to ask about it. Why I had reacted the way I had.

No one else ever had.

"I, um. I remembered something. A few years ago. Something else. Somewhere else. Someone else. He said that same thing. Um. That you said. And," I swallowed. If I swallowed the lump in my throat, the tears wouldn't come out again. Just the words. The facts.

The facts were bad enough without the tears.

Adrien nodded encouragingly. Still silent. Smart boy.

I nodded, too. It was this…nonverbal communication. Of reading each other's minds. His nod had been, You got this. You can do this. You're doing this. And my answering nod had been, Okay, yeah. I can do this.

"Um. And when he said it. I, um. I felt scared. It scared me. So. So when you said it, it just. It reminded me of. Of him saying it."

I swallowed. Again. Again. My mouth felt simultaneously overstimulated with saliva and bone dry. I wanted something to drink. To eat. To swallow. God. This is what it meant when people said the phrase 'eat your feelings,' wasn't it? Because if I could just keep talking and swallowing, then it was just the words.

Not the emotions behind them.

I was swallowing the emotions.

"You…were scared?" Adrien's face fell a fraction.

"Not of you," I said quickly. "Of. Of him. Hob. God." Stupid tears. I hadn't planned on even saying his name, the scumbag. And the tears had crept up on me. I wiped at them with the tips of my fingers, swallowing the lump that had cracked in my throat, letting the tears out in the first place.

"What. What did he do? Lindy?" Adrien was done with his self-pity. If he hadn't known before, me dropping a name had clued him into what this conversation was. Namely…real. Serious.

I swallowed again. "Um…It was dark, and I, um, heard my dad arguing with, um, with Hob. He's um, he's my dad's pusher. And, um, they argued about…um, me?" My heart was in my mouth. I gagged on it. Swallowed. Again. Again. "Something about, um, extra? Um." God. Why was this so hard? My knees had slipped back up to my chest, at some point, my heels resting on the couch, and I hid my shaky hands behind them.

My pajama bottoms were some that Magda had picked up, when I asked. None of the ones I brought were the warm kind. These were fuzzy and had stars and hearts on them, in cute paisley patterns, and they grounded me. I was here. In a place where I was cared for, and safe, and loved, and where I didn't have to wear my ratty plaid pajama bottoms with the hole in the leg because they were my only long pair as the weather got colder. I rested my chin on my fuzzy knee and breathed deep.

"Extra…what?" Adrien asked.

"Drugs," I supplied the word immediately, and swallowed. "Um, he, um. He. Um. He wanted to. Um. Have some time with me?" I choked a little on the word 'time,' and swallowed again. "Um. Alone? And, um, my dad could have. Um. Extra. Um. Yeah."

"What?" Adrien growled.

I flinched. God. I gripped my hands tighter together behind my knees. I didn't mean to. I knew he wasn't mad at me. But I flinched, and he saw.

"Um. He. Um," I articulated. Swallowed. Getting down to it, it was…impossible to say. God.

"And…he…what? He actually did it?" Adrien sounded furious. I suddenly remembered why dogs could be scary. The way his face…transformed. They say animal faces don't emote, but they do. Animal rage was present on Adrien's face. His muzzle. I was glad he hadn't known this about my dad before. He might have murdered him.

I closed my eyes. Breathed. Maybe it would be better if I couldn't see him reacting. Closing my eyes made them feel hot, though, and I knew more tears had leaked out. Goddammit. "Drugs…I dunno. Meth, or whatever; the drugs he likes…come measured in, um, grams?" I said, with my eyes closed. My voice only shook a little. This part wasn't emotional. Not really. It was just facts. I could relay facts. "A half gram is, um, I think like, $80? And they call the gram and three-quarters a 16th. A 16th is, like, $120? Maybe? Maybe more? I dunno. Hob," I wiped at my face again, and swallowed, "um. He'd change the prices. However. Um. However it suited him."

Adrien was quiet, and I chanced to open my eyes. He was looking at me intently. I kept my eyes open, but I looked down at my knees.

"Hob pushed for the, um, half. And my dad said no. And…and Hob pushed the half again, and…and my…" I faltered. Dad. Father. My fucking father. "He, um, bartered." I swallowed. Again. Again. Again. "Asked for the 16th instead," I pushed the words out. Just say it. Just say it. Get it over with. "And Hob said, 'Deal.'"

Adrien didn't say anything. He didn't say anything. I glanced up at him, and he looked…God. Horrified. I should probably take the time to point out that it was a little weird to see his animal face wear that expression, and because of the absurdity of it, and because I really didn't want the story I was telling to actually be true, I laughed. And he didn't seem to know what to do when I laughed, and that make me laugh some more.

"You bought me a fucking Bloomindale's in my closet," I said hysterically, after a minute of hearing nothing but my own laughter, wiping tears from my face. "Designer clothes, Jimmy Choos, Gucci, Prada handbags that cost more than a month of rent at my old apartment. A whole goddamn bookstore. Probably cost you a small fortune. But my own. My. My fucking father, who gave me half of my genes. He. He sold me for $120. Sold his. His thirteen-year-old. For an extra 16th of fucking drugs."

At some point in my monologue, it stopped being funny, and I was just outright sobbing. Adrien's arms wrapped around the ball I'd become, and my knees were against his chest, and his arms were strong around my shoulders, and I sort of melted, and he let me. My legs ended up on his lap, and his chin was on the back of my neck, and I just. Cried.

And the crying felt much better than the words, coming out. The lump in my throat had dissolved, and my head kind of hurt, but…there's just…a release that you can only get from crying. And I felt…so much lighter.

The light feeling came with a fierce return of fatigue, and I knew I needed to get to sleep, soon. Physical exhaustion is one thing, but baring your soul? That's some emotionally draining shit, right there.

I slowly extracted myself from the hug, and wiped my face, and fixed my hair, and Adrien was just…patient, and loving, and he let me compose myself, and didn't judge when I used my sleeve to wipe my nose. (At least, he didn't judge out loud.)

"I'm so sorry, Lindy," he said quietly, and…what do you do with that? I shrugged uncomfortably.

"Not your fault," I said, and continued to wipe my eyes of residue tears. God, I'd started the night with makeup, and I probably looked like a horror show. I groaned, and wiped under my eyes and down my cheeks, where I could feel the tear tracks were.

"No, Lindy…just…thank you for telling me. You…that was awful, and you didn't have to. It…it shouldn't have happened. Did…did you ever go to the Police? Or anything?"

I shook my head. "It was all I could do to go to the free clinic. Got my results and gave them a phony name, so CPS wouldn't be bugging me."

"CPS?"

Oh. Oh, honey. Adrien didn't know what CPS stood for. "Child Protective Services," I said, and I felt that gap between us. His dad might not be the best, but he at least had money to throw at their problems.

"They might have been able to help," Adrien pointed out, thinking he knew. Thinking it worked out.

"And they might have put me somewhere worse, Adrien. You don't get it," I said shortly, and took a breath.

Of course he didn't get it. He looked like a freak show, but he had that money to kind of cushion it. I didn't. Even at thirteen I knew that I didn't have a chance in foster care. No one wanted to foster a teenager. No one wanted the daughter of an addict. And if they did, they were probably dealers themselves. And it would screw up my plan. Get through Tuttle. Get college scholarships. Get the Hell out. And the plan for future Lindy? Was a hell of a lot more important than the problems of Present Lindy. I had to put the plan first. It was how I could survive my shithole of a life. And…he didn't get that.

"You're right," he said softly, and I looked at him in surprise. "I don't," he said, shrugging sadly. "I…can't even imagine going through that. I…I'm sorry."

I didn't know what to say, so I just…nodded.

Eventually, though, I did voice my tiredness in the form of an enormous, world-consuming yawn.

"You're tired…we should…call it a night," Adrien said, looking at me, as if for permission, before gently extricating himself from my legs, which were still halfway on his lap.

I nodded, and he helped me to my feet.

And I slept…so good that night. And in the morning, refreshed and showered and in the light of a new day, I met Adrien in the greenhouse for our lesson, just like normal. And he hugged me like I liked, and…I dunno. I couldn't seem to stop smiling at him. Touching him. Because he was my friend. And because he'd taken the burden of my story—my secret—so gracefully, all things considered. And I really appreciated that.  
\---  
Um those short stories mentioned?

"A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner

"Bloody Laundry" by Robert C. Welch (Scary Stories for Stormy Nights)

Spine-tingling. Happy Halloween!


	13. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is struck. The transition is there. She doesn't think of him as just a friend. Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?

I had a dream, one of those nights following Halloween. I was with Adrian, but it wasn’t Adrian. Like…it was. But it didn’t look like him. Dream logic, I guess. But I knew it was him. And we were together. We were in love. We were walking around Strawberry Fields in Central Park—like, because we’d talked about it. And we were arguing about what movie to see, where we wanted to go for dinner. Normal stuff. Like we were normal. And I looked at him, and I asked him to bend down closer to me. And he said, ‘Why?’ and I said, ‘So I can kiss my boyfriend.’ And it was all sassy and cute, and he did, and I kissed him, and…it was so perfect. And I didn’t see his face. But, like, I knew it was Adrian. And I knew that he didn’t look like a beast.  
  
I woke up, and I didn’t know how to feel. I felt flushed and I had to kick the bedcovers off, though it early November and cold as hell. I had felt, at the end, a very definite, very non-platonic want for Adrian to kiss me senseless. To get alone with him, so we’d have the privacy to…  
  
I’d…never thought about Adrian that way. Like…sexually, I mean. I didn’t think…I could? I didn’t think I would be able to, with how he looked. How…bestial it would be. How…wrong.  
  
I did love him. I did. But a huge underlying factor of not fostering my feelings toward him, or acknowledging his feelings toward me…was the simple fact that I wouldn’t ever be able to have...that part of a relationship. Not with him. Not when he…looked the   
way he did. Like a beast. With a snout.  
  
Like, I’m not ready to have sex any time soon. I know I’m not. I’m sixteen, and I have issues to work through before I’ll be able to see sex in a positive light, to be perfectly honest. But…I don’t want to utterly destroy the possibility? If I stay with Adrian, aside from being chained to someone who needs me, I would be condemning myself to celibacy. Because I won’t cheat. That’s not who I am. I won’t just go and sleep with someone I don’t love because I can’t sleep with the one I do love.  
  
But…I also don’t like the idea of the scope of my sexual experience being…when I was raped when I was thirteen. I…I don’t want that at all.  
  
God.  
  
I hadn’t thought about it so bluntly, before, and I’d never used the word, even just in my head.  
  
Words have power. I knew that with how many books I’d read. Words have the power to strengthen and embolden or else crush and distress. When they say ‘sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can never hurt you,’ that’s actually legitimate, 100% bullshit. Tell them I said so.  
  
To put words to something; to give it a meaning and a name…is to give it weight. And to deliberately avoid doing so is a semblance of making it unimportant. The trappings of it, anyway. Like when I hadn’t wanted to say Hob’s name aloud.  
  
Like if I didn’t say Hob’s name aloud, he wasn’t actually real.  
  
If I didn’t outright say that he’d…that he’d raped me…then…maybe it would be like it hadn’t happened.  
  
So, when I dreamed of wanting Adrian that way…wanting that part of him, wanting that part of what romance could be, if he didn’t look like some wolf-creature, and if I weren’t so screwed up…I dunno. It threw me for a loop. I couldn’t sleep anymore.  
  
Shall I paint a picture for you? Welcome to the theatre of Lindy’s mind, ca 2:54 AM, played in an endless loop for eternity. Featuring titles such as: Should I tell him? Would that hurt him? To tell him I couldn’t be with him, and this was why? Would it be better, in any way, if he knew at least that I loved him? And that…I wanted to love him with all of me? But…that I couldn’t? That we couldn’t?  
  
I tortured myself with these questions and ones like them, and then this gem popped in there: I don’t even know if…he could. Do that. Physically. Like…was he a wolf…underneath? Would wolf…parts…work the same?  
  
God, I didn’t want to be thinking about this. My face felt hot and red. I felt shame for even thinking it could be a possibility.  
  
The next morning, I was so distracted during Yoga that Will noticed. And he’s blind. I wasn’t myself for our tutoring, either, and by lunch, Magda had gotten wind of it, and pulled me aside to ask if I needed anything, but was afraid to ask the others because they were boys.  
  
I mumbled that I was fine, I just was feeling a little weird, and I tried really hard to turn it around. I didn’t want everyone to worry. I didn’t want to explain what was wrong, either.  
  
At the end of tutoring, Will announced that we were starting our break for the holidays, saying we were so far ahead of his curriculum, he needed time to draft a new one, anyway, and that the holidays seemed as good an excuse as any.  
  
Great. I weirded out Will, and he thought it was his fault.  
  
“Are…you okay?” Adrian asked later, when we were in my library, picking out books to read. We always did that together. But it was weird, now. Everything was weird, now.  
  
I’d made it weird.  
  
I made to shrug; I wasn’t sure if I was ready to talk about anything; I was still processing hard core. Then Adrian looked serious, lowering his voice.  
  
“I…I didn’t tell them. What…what you told me? I wasn’t sure what…you wanted. But…I didn’t. And…and if you don’t want me to, I won’t…it’s not really my story to tell, anyway. But…just…Lindy, it wasn’t right. And…and not saying anything to anyone for so long…hasn’t done any good. That…that fucking…” I blinked, and Adrian breathed deliberately, as though to calm himself down. “He doesn’t deserve your silence.”  
  
My heart thudded, and I couldn’t breathe. He…was absolutely right. Woah. “I just…I…I never even…said it to myself, before,” I murmured, and it was true. I hadn’t even named the act.  
  
Rape. The rape.  
  
“And…you…need to feel good, too,” Adrian intercepted quickly. “You…don’t have to do anything you…are scared to. Not…not ever. Okay? But…just…I…I wanted to let you know that, I guess. I dunno. I’m hardly one to talk. I haven’t talked to my dad, in like, over a year. Definitely…issues there.”  
  
God, I loved him.  
  
I moved forward, wrapping my arms around him, happy when he immediately reciprocated, and I was enveloped in him, cocooned in him, and safe.  
  
I wished I could do for him what he did for me. I knew that underneath everything, he was always a little heartbroken because he didn’t think I loved him, because of the way he looked.  
  
“If I…talk to someone,” I said hesitantly, will…will you? I mean…I don’t…” I started to backtrack, because logistics. Adrian can’t see a therapist. That wouldn’t work. Adrian would cause a panic.  
  
“I’ll…call my dad,” Adrian said slowly, “if…you call yours. Deal?”  
  
Hmm. That…might work. Adrian desperately needed to say some stuff to his dad. He’d been feeling so lonely, and he didn’t deserve that. And his dad should know that Adrian had been hurt by him. Adrian’s mom had left them, and so when Adrian’s dad left him, too, did he honestly expect everything to be all right?  
  
But…my dad…God. Did…did he even remember? Was he high enough that he forgot? I…almost hoped so. ‘So high he sold me’ would sit better with me than ‘he wanted a fix so bad he let me get raped.’ It wasn’t much of a difference, but it was still a difference. It was still something that mattered, that I kind of wanted to know.  
  
“Deal,” I said breathlessly, and Adrian settled back into our embrace.


	14. The Perfect Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Perfect Thanksgiving is achieved. More serious talk. Lindy tells Adrian about Kyle Kingsbury.

I could lie, and tell you everything was fine and lovely and normal after all that…drama. I could. But this isn’t the space where I do that.  
  
This is the real space. Where I say, outright, that Adrian was two floors below me that night, just like every night, but now it was torture. Since I’d had that dream.  
  
God.  
  
I just…liked being with him.  
  
I thought about him a lot, now, and I wondered if there were any way things would ever be different.  
  
I felt like he was what I…lacked? It sounds cliché and overdone. Like, I know. But…where he was spiny and bitter, I was…softer. I dulled him. But where I was insecure and a hot mess, he was confident. He strengthened me. We were like…an oyster. Two halves of a whole. But when you opened us up, there was just gross grey gunk inside, because we were both so screwed up.  
  
I just wished I could stop feeling so weird.  
  
As the days progressed, it helped that Magda started asking about Thanksgiving almost daily. She seemed excited to cook for us, and asked what we wanted to have. And it sparked interesting conversation.  
  
I was most excited for the stuffing, and Adrian was talking about “real” mashed potatoes. Will said that Pilot liked the turkey giblets, if we were willing to sacrifice them, and made everyone groan when he asked about Cranberries.  
  
“With rolls, they’re delightful,” Will insisted.  
  
We talked about everything and anything Thanksgiving-related, and every so often, Magda would jump in with a question for us about food. She seemed to be set on the idea of cooking without help, and refused to let us see the list she was always adding to and speaking rapid-fire Spanish to.  
  
“Football?” Adrian asked, once, and I wrinkled my nose at him. I would love baseball until I died, but football? Not so much.  
  
“Not…really?” I said hesitantly, like a question, and both Will and Adrian groaned.  
  
What is it with guys and football?  
  
Will started trying to explain a concept to me with such grand gestures that Pilot, who never misbehaved, barked wildly at him until he calmed his hands. Adrian was talking my ear off about games he’d seen, and I let him go, and just smiled.  
  
It was the least I could do; he let me go off like this all the time for tutoring. School was my geeking out. Football, it seemed, was his.  
  
“And when they didn’t go for the field goal! It was insane! The crowd was going nuts, and then when they actually got the touchdown with five seconds left! Oh, my God! It was the craziest thing I’d ever seen in my life! People actually rushed the field. They jumped down from the stands, almost killing themselves, and it was just, this mob of red and white, people everywhere, cheering, hugging complete strangers. Like, thousands of people. It was so insane. Like, what a rush!”  
  
“Country Gravy? Turkey Gravy? Or Brown?” Magda cut in smoothly. She had reappeared with a pen hovering over her Thanksgiving list.  
  
“Country,” I said, at the same time as Will, who said, “Turkey.”  
  
“I make both,” she muttered, starting to talk to herself in quick Spanish, making notes on the list and retreating back to the other room. Adrian said he thought she was loading a virtual shopping cart so that she could just go pick it up a few days before the holiday, and not be trapped in a store with crazed Thanksgiving shoppers.  
  
And the days were so cozy, now that it was colder. It was all sweaters and real fire in a real fireplace, living out some of my very favorite clichés; making hot chocolate with nutmeg and cinnamon, or with pumpkin spice and whipped cream. Asking for eggnog. Having Magda teach us baking, instead of just cooking Mexican dishes. (But I maintain my rellenos were better than Adrian’s, he just can’t handle his dishes spicy.)  
  
We made sugar cookies and then made the frosting to go on them. (Frosting may or may not have found its way into Adrian’s ear. And in retaliation he may or may not have tried to put frosting up my nose.)  
  
(In a follow-up note, it’s hard to scrub frosting out of your hair. And ears. And nose.)  
  
On the day, Magda declared us ready to make pumpkin pie, and Will came solemnly into the kitchen, having appropriated a can of cranberries.  
  
(Cranberries are easier to scrub out of your hair than frosting. )  
  
Will also said cranberries stain, and didn’t trust us when we said he’d escaped the encounter without staining his shirt. (He really had!) And he grumbled at us that he’d be able to tell. That stained fabrics felt different.  
  
Adrian called bullshit, and then we argued about it, and Magda ended up kicking us all out of the kitchen.  
  
And it was the most perfect Thanksgiving I could have hoped for.  
  
We talked about what we were thankful for, and we reminisced about past Thanksgivings—they told me I won ‘Worst Thanksgiving’ because my mom died the day after Thanksgiving, when I was little. But Will was a contender for a minute, when he said   
Thanksgiving was the day he’d been declared legally blind.  
  
Until Adrian called bullshit, and we argued about it. And Magda told us if we couldn’t sit nicely without arguing that she’d eat all the pie herself.  
  
(And Will admitted he’d lied.)  
  
We had done it right, too. We’d dressed up: business casual, for the men (Will wore a tie, but Adrian didn’t) and pearls for the ladies. (Adrian was insistent, when he slid Magda the skinny box, and she finally accepted them, and they looked gorgeous on her.)   
I found something nice in my mini-Bloomie’s closet, and wore my hair down.  
  
Adrian told me I looked beautiful, and I flushed at the compliment, but secretly felt self-conscious, because the top was a little loose on me, and the collar kind of plunged.  
  
Will also told me I looked beautiful, then, and we laughed, and I felt a little better.  
  
We finished the meal around 5:00, and banished Magda from the dishes, because she’d cooked the whole meal. After Adrian, Will and I finished the dishes, Will excused himself for what he called his annual “turkey nap.”  
  
So then it was us.  
  
We decided to sit in the study. Adrian had opened the shutters, and it was so nice. The late afternoon painted everything, making it cozy and warm. My hair looked gold, when the sun hit it.  
  
“I wish we could go to school together,” I found myself saying. “I mean that you could go to my school,” I corrected, feeling stupid. “My old school.”  
  
Adrian didn’t laugh at me, though. “Would I like it?” he asked seriously. He had this gentle smile. It was really subtle, around his face. His snout. But I liked it.  
  
“Probably not,” I considered, frowning. “The kids there, they’re all rich and snotty. I didn’t fit in.”  
  
Adrian’s smile got bigger, then. Like…he thought it was funny. I didn’t get what went through his mind, sometimes. “What would your friends say if they saw someone like me there?” he said, and I had a feeling it wasn’t what had made him smile.  
  
I scoffed. “I didn’t have any friends. But I’m sure some of the parents in the PTA would have problems with you.” I would know. They had problems with me. Well, with the scholarship kids. It wasn’t that I was poor. Not necessarily. It’s that I wasn’t good enough, because I didn’t come from money. I was riffraff.  
  
“’I don’t want any beasts in school with my child!’” Adrian said, adopting a falsetto. “That’s what they’d say at the PTA meeting. ‘I pay good money for this school. You can’t let in riffraff.’”  
  
I laughed, probably harder than necessary, simply because he’d used the word I’d been thinking. “Exactly.”  
  
We sat in comfortable silence for a bit, and then Adrian stood, and offered me his arm. I accepted it, and we walked into the greenhouse. I liked how warm it was, and Adrian had been giving me more roses. And I loved that he gave them to me.  
  
“Hey, we could start studying in here now that it’s cool,” Adrian said. Because Will had declared school was out, and we were still dorks who did our studying.  
  
“I’d like that,” I said honestly.  
  
“Do you need any flowers?” He asked, holding up his cutters. Because he kept cutters in his suit pocket. What a dork.  
  
“Yes, please,” I said automatically. “If you won’t miss them.” We moved closer to the tea roses.  
  
“I’ll miss them,” he said, in a faux grudging way. Then he looked at me, and that gentle smile was back. “But it makes me happy to give them to you, Lindy. To have someone to give them to,” he said a little softer.  
  
I melted. “I understand, Adrian.” I smiled. “And I know what it is to be lonely,” I continued. “I’ve been lonely all my life, until…” I stopped. God. Shut up, Lindy. He doesn’t want to hear about this. I was so pathetic. I was about to tell him about how I was lonely until I got a crush on Kyle Kingsbury, and then I felt better, pretending he gave a damn about me.  
  
Until I came here, and had people who actually cared about me.  
  
Until I realized I had a kindred spirit, in Adrian, and that I was in love with him.  
  
“Until what?” he asked, and I blushed.  
  
“Nothing. I forgot what I was going to say,” I said quickly. The trouble with loving Adrian? And still being friends? Was that I felt like I could tell him everything.  
  
“All right,” he said easily. “What color do you want this time? I think you had red last time, but the red ones don’t last, do they?”  
  
I paused, looking at the white tea roses, thinking of Kyle Kingsbury. “You know, I had a huge crush on this guy at my school once,” I said absently, fingering a tiny bloom.  
  
“Really?” Did I dare hope he sounded jealous? “What was he like?”  
  
I laughed. “Perfect. The typical guy you’d have a crush on, I guess. Beautiful, popular. I thought he was smart, too, but maybe I just wanted him to be smart.” It felt better than I thought it would to admit some of the childish things I’d held on to, when I’d thought I was in love with Kyle Kingsbury. “It bothered me that I could like someone just for his looks. You know how that is.” I cut myself off. Shit. How insensitive was I being?  
  
I glanced at Adrian, and he was turned away. God. Had I hurt his feelings? Made him feel ugly?  
  
“It’s strange, though,” I powered forward, trying to salvage the idea of what I’d…meant to say. “People make such a big deal about looks, but after a while, when you know someone, you don’t even notice anymore, do you. It’s just…the way you look.”  
  
“You think?” Adrian asked, and he shuffled his feet, edging slightly closer to me. I wanted to blush. “So what was this guy’s name?” he asked casually, and I let out a shaky breath in a laugh.  
  
“Kyle. Kyle Kingsbury. Isn’t that…” I shook my head. “An incredible name? His father’s this big network anchor. I watch him sometimes and remember Kyle. They look just alike.”  
  
Adrian crossed his arms, like he was contemplating something. I looked at his face. At the whorls of fur closest to the bridge of his nose. Snout. “So…you liked this Kyle guy because he was so great-looking and had a rich father and an incredible name?” he said carefully, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.  
  
I laughed. I knew he wouldn’t let that slide. It sounded incredibly shallow, and it was! “Well, not just that,” I said seriously. “He was…he was so confident, fearless, like I’m not. He spoke his mind.” Like you, I thought, looking at Adrian’s blue eyes. “He didn’t know I existed, of course, except this one time…” I trailed off. Oh. We were getting back to me being stupid. “It was silly,” I said softly.  
  
“No. Tell me,” Adrian looked back at me, and I smiled.  
  
“I was helping out at a dance. I hated helping at dances. I felt stupid and poor, but it was…encouraged? If you were on scholarship.” I grimaced, remembering the way those snobs all sneered at me. With each ticket I took, I got the same telepathic message through those sneers. Loser, loser, loser. “Anyway,” I shook my head, “he was there with his girlfriend – this completely evil girl named Sloane Hagen,” I couldn’t help but add. “I remember he’d gotten her a corsage –a glorious white rose.” My fingers kept stroking the tiny petals of the white tea roses in front of me. “Sloane was having a hissy because it wasn’t an orchid, wasn’t expensive enough, I guess.” I rolled my eyes. It still made me so mad, thinking about her. So stuck-up, so entitled. She probably never had to work for anything in her life. Neither did Kyle. That’s probably why he was on drugs. He thought it was fun.  
  
“But,” I continued, scoffing, “I remember thinking that if I could have a rose like that from a guy like Kyle Kingsbury, I’d…be happy forever. And just as I was thinking that…he…walked over. And gave it to me.” I hadn’t realized it, but I’d gotten tears in my eyes. God. Stupid tears. Over stupid Kyle.  
  
I looked at Adrian, and he was so engrossed in my story. “Yeah?”  
  
I nodded. “I…I could tell he thought it was no big deal, but in my entire life, no one had ever given me a flower. Ever.” I laughed, and a few of the tears escaped, and I wiped them away, imagining my room, and the vases and vases of roses. It had meant so much, then. And…he probably…wouldn’t have even remembered. “I spent the whole night looking at it,” I admitted, and it just…felt so lonely. I still felt that ache I’d felt, then, just recalling it. “The way its calyx cradled it like a tiny hand. It…it even had a little vial of water to keep it alive longer. And the scent—I took it home on the subway, smelling it the whole time, and pressed it in the pages of a book so I could remember it forever.” I shook my head. God. More tears dripped down my nose, and I wiped them away.  
  
“Do you still have it?” Adrian asked—almost reverently. I smiled, and nodded.  
  
“In a book upstairs. I brought it with me. That Monday, I wanted to find Kyle, to thank him again for it, but he wasn’t in school,” I said, and shrugged. “He’d gotten sick over the weekend and missed the rest of the year. Then…” I stopped, swallowing the next part. I didn’t know he’d gotten into drugs. There were just rumors I’d heard. And even though he was a stupid, pretty boy, who was actually probably scum, I didn’t want to tarnish this. My recounting of this memory. Because it had been something I cherished, once.  
  
“Then he went to boarding school,” I finished instead. “I never saw him again.”  
  
There was a pause, and it was kind of awkward, to sit there, kind of crying, so I cleared my throat, wiping the rest of my tears, and apologizing. Adrian had a look on his face for a moment that I didn’t understand. He seemed…grateful? Maybe? Or relieved?   
But then he smiled, and it was gone. “Should we pick some now?” he asked, indicating the white tea roses we’d been standing at all this time.  
  
“I love the roses you give me, Adrian,” I said.  
  
_I love you, Adrian._  
  
“Do you?” Adrian asked, and I was taken aback for a moment. Confused as to which statement he was answering. The one I’d said aloud? Or the one I hadn’t?  
  
I nodded, anyway. “I’ve never had beautiful things. It makes me sad to see them die, though. The yellow roses last the longest, but it’s still too short.”  
  
I was removing the weight. Or trying to. I just let things get so…dramatic. Why did I keep doing that?  
  
“That’s why I built this greenhouse,” Adrian said, smiling. “So I could have them all year long. It’s never winter. Even though there will soon be snow on the ground.”  
  
“But I like winter,” I interjected. “It’s almost Christmas. I miss being able to go outside and touch the snow.” I said the last bit without thinking, and Adrian frowned.  
  
“I’m sorry, Lindy. I wish I could give you everything you want,” he muttered, and I could have kicked myself.  
  
He started examining the roses, and he clipped me a little white one. It was perfect.


	15. The Best Christmas Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas! But something is nagging at Lindy. A choice she'll have to make soon. To leave. But we're not thinking about that, because it's Christmas.

Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!! It’s Christmastime! Thanksgiving is over, and now it’s Christmas season!!  
  
I remember it was different when I was a little girl. But I think that’s true for most kids. Christmas felt different when you were little and still believed in Santa.  
  
I remember the Christmas my mom died was this weird…I dunno. It was just…weird. Like, she’d been there, for Thanksgiving. And then suddenly she wasn’t, for Christmas.  
  
And, like, what were we supposed to do with the gifts we’d gotten her?  
  
And…it was like Christmas had sort of…died. With her.  
  
Since then, what I do for Christmas is read.  
  
I mean, I would read before then, too. When I was little, my sisters used to read me _The Night Before Christmas_ and _How the Grinch Stole Christmas!_ Then, _The Best Christmas Pageant Ever_, followed by all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. I would read them myself, when I got older. I loved reading what the Ingalls girls got for Christmas, even if it was only a stick of candy. My favorite was _On the Banks of Plum Creek_, when Laura and her sisters got presents off the tree at church.  
  
When I was ten, my teacher gave me Little Women, and two years later, I found Dickens’ _A Christmas Carol_. Laura and the March girls and Ebeneezer Scrooge, that’s who I spend Christmas with.  
  
So I asked Adrian if he could get me these books. “We could read them aloud together,” I said, “get in the holiday spirit.”  
  
“That’s all you want to do for Christmas? READ?” he teased.  
  
“I like reading, and we’re stuck in the house anyway,” I said before I realized. I was sorry I’d said it. “And I LIKE READING,” I repeated, hoping that if I glossed over it quick enough it might be forgotten. “Don’t you have any holiday traditions?”  
  
“Sure,” he said, and he seemed…amused. “I like watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_ as much as the next person.”  
  
“I do that too,” I said. “Let’s definitely watch that.”  
  
He nodded, chuckling. “Definitely.” Was he making fun of me? “But isn’t there anything else you want to do? I have sort of an unlimited budget, thanks to my dad’s guilty conscience. And I really want to make Christmas nice for you.” He kinda swallowed, and then said, “For us.”  
  
Oh.  
  
I thought about it, all the things other people had done in songs and movies that I wished I could do. Riding in a one-horse open sleigh sounded like a bit much to ask, so I said, “We could make cookies, maybe even a gingerbread house. I bet Magda could help us with that. And…we could get a tree.”  
  
Oh, a tree. I really wanted a tree. I hadn’t had a tree since I was little, and I always saw them in people’s windows, especially near school, all decorated with lights and stars on top. And I was a New Yorker, too. I liked Christmas in New York things as much as the next schmaltzy tourist. The Rockerfeller Center and the department store show windows.  
  
I knew exactly the kind of tree I wanted, too. With lots of different little ornaments, each with, like, its own special meaning…the kind of tree I would have with a family of my own, one day.  
  
Adrian smiled, then, and I realized he’d planned this. “We have a winner. I’m way ahead of you.”  
  
And he gestured grandly out toward the greenhouse.  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh, my.  
  
A pine tree was there, taking up space in the greenhouse like it owned the joint. A live one. In a pot. So tall, it almost scraped the ceiling.  
  
“I wanted a real one,” Adrian was explaining, watching as I walked toward it, and around it, inspecting the pine needles and just…breathing it in. “A live one that wouldn’t have to die, ever. If you want it in the living room, we could probably move it out. I thought the light was better here.”  
  
Pine and roses. What a gorgeous scent. “It’s beautiful. Did…you get the decorations, too?” I kind of hoped he hadn’t I wanted to help choose them.  
  
He shook his head, and I couldn’t help but grin. “Nah. I wanted you to pick. White lights, or colored? Glass balls, or little toys, and stuff? A star at the top, or an angel?”  
  
“Oh, an angel,” I said dreamily. “With blonde hair, like my mother.” But then I realized I should ask what he liked, too. “What…did you used to have? With your father?”  
  
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “We haven’t had a tree since my mother left.”  
  
Of course, he hadn’t. I’d said it already, before. We were two halves of a whole. An oyster shell hiding the grey gunk inside.  
  
So we decided to choose together. The Internet is awesome. We chose it, and then Magda went and picked it up, so we wouldn’t have to wait for it to be delivered. Then the four of us decorated together, like a real family, singing Christmas carols and having hot chocolate. Magda made a special soup from her country, and maybe it was better than most real families.  
  
We had chosen white lights. Adrian and I had agreed we wanted them to look like stars, and so he made them blink and twinkle, and then, when we were finished, we all just stared up at the tree, silhouetted against the sky.  
  
“It’s beautiful. The beauty, it brings tears to my eyes,” Will deadpanned, giving a big, fake sniff. (Will had totally helped with the lights, because he said he could still see lights, sometimes.)  
  
We all laughed, and then I noticed the snow falling outside.  
  
It was…it was beautiful. It still is beautiful, when I look at it.  
  
Adrian declared a hiatus from studying; Will had insisted we were still on break for the holidays, but Adrian and I had still be studying intermittently. But I was happy to agree to the break if it meant we got to do more holiday stuff. I just…it’s like a switch was flipped, in me, and I just decided to have fun. It’s freaking Christmas, and I’m young. I don’t often feel young, but…I just…decided not to worry, anymore. No worrying about the future, or hurting Adrian’s feelings, or when I’ll eventually have to leave him and move on with my life. No thinking of my dad, or how rehab was going (or not going.) I fucking deserve it. Even if I know this can’t last forever, and even if I feel it might be coming to an end soon…I at least have it now.  
  
So we did Christmas activities. We made a gingerbread house. Adrian wanted to go all complicated, at first, and make a gingerbread brownstone, but I thought it might be too hard.  
  
“No no no, sir, this is our first time. We make a regular house. Then, maybe next year, if you’re good, we can do something more advanced.”  
  
He looked at me, surprised. “Will…you still be here? Next year?”  
  
Oh. Had I really said that? “Do you want me to be here next year?” I asked. Because I had thought…well, maybe they hadn’t planned on me staying so long. Will had said, at the beginning of all this, “Live here a year.” Implying that I could, or would, leave after that.  
  
Adrian met my eyes with an intensity I’d never seen before. And then…looked down. “I want you to stay forever, Lindy, but I want you to be happy.”  
  
It was such an Adrian answer.  
  
“I am happy,” I told him, and I did mean it. But…would I always be happy? Can I just…be happy? Here alone with Adrian? No school, no college, no life? Was it enough for me…forever? No. Of course not.  
  
But we just decided not to worry about that. Not to think about it. It’s Christmas. I was happy. Am happy, now. And I want Adrian to be happy, too. Sadness could come later. Separation could come later.  
  
“So, a regular gingerbread house, but we need a lot of candy,” I said then, changing the subject.  
  
“Yes. A lot,” Adrian agreed seriously. “In fact, I was thinking _you_ could do most of the baking, and _I_ could actually be _in charge_ of candy.”  
  
“Oh, you think so?” I asked in mock seriousness.  
  
“I do. You’re already sweet enough.”  
  
Oh, God. Adrian.  
  
We also watched a bunch of hokey Christmas movies. Specifically, we watched _Elf_, _A Christmas Story_, _Home Alone_, _A Christmas Carol_ (the one with Patrick Stewart, but also the one with Mickey Mouse and the one with Muppets), _Scrooged_, and of course, _It’s a Wonderful Life_.  
  
“Did you know, it wasn’t even really meant to be a Christmas movie?” I told him, after we’d finished it. “It just happened to take place at Christmas, and it was one of those movies that was way more famous after it had already been released from theaters? So stations got the rights to it, and started playing it in loops around Christmastime, because it was cheap, and black and white, and all. And it just…became this Christmas cult classic.”  
  
“It’s great,” Adrian said. “Like…wow.”  
  
“You said you’d seen it before,” I reminded him, smirking.  
  
“Well, I had. Once. When I was twelve. But…I get it more, now. It makes me wonder how the world would be different if I’d never been born.”  
  
I thought about that. Adrian was always saying things that made me ponder. Welp, my dad would be dead. Probably many, many times over, in fact. It was kind of depressing, and made me feel more than a little guilty that I was…living so much, and so fully, without even giving him a passing thought, most days. Was it selfish of me? I wondered where he was, if he was okay. Stupid. He probably hadn’t thought about me once.  
  
“We should do something for someone,” Adrian declared.  
  
“There were kids—my neighbors, in my building, the Lesters. I bought toys for them, last year. Their mom…had a hard time dealing with stuff, and I knew she wouldn’t be able to afford presents,” I told him, and he frowned at me.  
  
“Could you afford presents?”  
  
“Not really good ones. Just…small things. Cars and teddy bears. I left them on the doorstep. It was just what I could save from my paycheck, after paying rent, and stuff. And the extra I got from tutoring.”  
  
“Well, money’s not an issue,” Adrian said, and I had kind of hoped he would.

“The little boy is named Kenneth, and his sister is Kiana.” I told him about them. About their mom, who was sort of a friend, and I would baby sit for her, sometimes. We brainstormed presents they could use together, but then also stuff they could have on their own.  
  
“Should we sneak in and deliver them?”  
  
“That’s a good way to get shot in my old neighborhood.”  
  
“So, no. We could just order them and have them delivered. No problem.”  
  
“This is fun, though. I wish I could see their faces when the presents come. I love doing this with you.” I said, grinning.  
  
“And I love…”  
  
He didn’t finish.  
  
Oh, damn it, Adrian. He loves me. Oh, he loves me, he loves me, and that makes me so happy….and I love him too. But it’s not like I can tell him that. This has been a wonderful, sweet fantasy, but…it can’t go on. I knew it couldn’t. Unless I decided, once and for all, that I was willing to give up the rest of my life at the ripe old age of sixteen. Give up the rest of the world, in exchange for Adrian. Was it worth it?  
  
I didn’t want to choose that.  
  
“Do you want to send anything to your father?” he asked. “Christmas dinner, maybe?”  
  
I frowned. “I don’t…He probably doesn’t even live in the same place anymore,” I said, and it was the truth. Eviction loomed large in our lives, and it would be even more likely, now that I wasn’t there to help him manage things.  
  
“I’ll find out where he is, and we’ll send something,” Adrian said decidedly. “I’ll make sure he’s safe, Lindy. I…I would do anything for you.”  
  
Oh, God, Adrian. He’s said that to me, before.  
  
And no one else ever has.  
  
The days passed quickly, and I couldn’t help but feel that something was going to have to happen, soon. But not now. Now it was Christmastime.  
  
Adrian asked me, on Christmas Eve, if I usually went to church, or anything. I blinked. We’d never really talked about religion.  
  
“I just wondered if you wanted to go to a service; there’s some chapels that have a Christmas service at midnight.”  
  
I hadn’t done Midnight Mass since my mother died, and suddenly, it sounded like a lovely idea.  
  
“Will…you go with me?” I asked.  
  
He frowned. “I…I wouldn’t…not in a crowd like that, but…maybe Magda could…you…you wouldn’t leave, would you? Not…on Christmas Eve?”  
  
I blinked again. I hadn’t even thought about leaving. I’d gotten him a present. Magda had gotten it for me; a bound volume of fairy tales by Hans Christian Andersen. I’d had it engraved. We had a tree. Why would I leave? “I don’t want to go at all, if you don’t go. We can just stay home and watch a service on TV.”  
  
“There…there is a church down the street…they’re holding a live nativity. I think they’ll have real animals, like sheep, and stuff. I could take you to that. It’s…it’s outside. I could just stand in the shadows.”  
  
I nodded. “Okay, let’s go to that,” I agreed.  
  
So we went. I stepped outside for the first time since July. Adrian wore a big coat with a hood, and gloves. He held my hand as we walked down the street, and I squeezed it. He squeezed back.  
  
We stood in back, in the shadows, and even so, whenever anyone turned to look in his direction, he cringed and hid.  
  
This is how it would be, I knew, if we were together. Always hiding. Always concealed.  
  
The performance started, then, and I put it from my mind. It’s Christmastime. This can keep until after Christmas. You can have one Christmas.  
  
It was…nice. Kids our age, dressed up as angels and wise men; the Mary character was younger than me. Maybe thirteen? Fourteen? That hit me, actually. These…outsiders. With nowhere else to go. And she was so young, about to have a _baby_.  
In another life…an infinitely suckier life…that could have been my story. God. That was a heavy thought.  
  
Hell, it was already really close to my story, now.  
  
For a while, we were just…silent. In the cold night air, under the stars, together, but separated from everyone else, me and Adrian just…existed.  
  
And then…we went home. We drank hot chocolate, and Will bugged us to hang our stockings.  
  
“You’ve left it for the last minute! It’s Christmas Eve!”  
  
“Will, we aren’t kids, anymore,” Adrian said quietly, and I wondered if the odd mood I’d picked up had been communicated to him, somehow. I didn’t want that. It was Christmas.  
  
“You never know what will happen in the dark,” Will said, and I just smiled.  
  
I just knew…the stockings would be filled by morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Specific chapters will get trigger warnings; not all chapters contain all triggers.  
Trying to see if there's more of a fan base over here than on ff.net, because over there I'm getting hits but no comments. I wanna see how the people like this, or if I'm literally throwing it into the void of a dead fandom.


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